Monday morning, and back to work.

Today I'll be finishing up my manuscript-review job. My next editing project finally arrived yesterday, so I'll be back in the editing saddle as well--if not today, then soon. I do have a bunch of meetings scheduled for this week, which will complicate matters. The freelance life is so confusing. I seem to have all the time in the world, until I have none.

Tom spent yesterday framing his new workshop space in the basement. In Harmony he had an entire building with loft for a workshop: his own wood stove, endless lumber storage, a huge amount of space for multiple projects. His city space will be tiny, but at least it will be something. And with dedicated shop space he can finish making the kitchen cabinets, start working on the living room cabinets or a bathroom vanity, maybe even build us a bed.

In the meantime, I did housework, and baked Russian tea balls, and read Proust, and watched some football with Paul before driving him to work. For dinner we had stone soup (aka minestrone made with refrigerator leavings), and Tom and I ambled around the neighborhood to admire the Christmas lights. And then Paul came home and the football began again.

There was nothing scintillating about the weekend, but it was companionable. Tonight the boys will make dinner while I'm in my poetry group, and I'll listen to the murmur of their cheerful voices through the closed door. As always, I'll feel my dread lift. I'm lucky, lucky.