Friday morning, driving to work with small boy in the back seat dressed in "bridges for his knees," (knee britches), shiny formal shoes, a sweatshirt covered in treasure maps, and a felt "captain's hat" complete with skull and crossbones on his head. The final touch is his valiant, warbling rendition of "What do y'do wiv a dwunken saiyor?"

Friday afternoon, running behind same small child as he outraces the shelter of my glorious sky umbrella, both of us laughing in sheer joy at the wonder of the fat, unseasonable flakes of icy lace swirling around us in the air.

A Saturday playing with cats, husband, and child.

Sunday night, watching husband and son curled up next to each other in the living room in front of the gently popping embers of a settling fire, Loreena McKennit lulling them to safe, warm sleep.

Monday at a friend's house, watching son tenderly feed a seven-month old baby. Later, he tells me, "He fot I was a big bwovver!"