* * * * *Turned forty-five this Sunday. I know. Went to the studio, some drawing like mad, big crumbles of snow in the window, walked home, had a nap, was awoke by Oona pretending to shave my face (complete with toy razor), did some shovelling (more pushing, actually -- snow out of the alley), made baked spaghetti (no tomato sauce, more of a cream blend), received a bottle of Goldschläger, and a chocolate cake, while Oona enjoyed (not) yet another timeout, I can't remember the last time she ate supper, or behaved at the table, and then it was bath and bed time. February always has this kind of static energy, with everyone holding their breath, so I think this is as good as it gets.
* * * * *Peter's book finally arrived, looking very smart. C should be proud of herself, for following it all the way through.