The other day I woke up, got out of bed, stumbled the seven paces to the studio, and was treated to the the sight of Robbi busy at her desk.
My first thought was that she had gotten up early. My second thought was that pigs would sooner fly out of my elbow. Which left only one conclusion: she had yet to turn in from the night. The early sun left no ambiguity. It was morning and the day was underway. The rolling thunder of tiny feet would soon be upon us. But there was Robbi, busy with her industry.
The industry du jour (or “de la nuit,” as the case may be), was doing the pen and ink linework for the next Bobbledy Book, a tale of friendship, admiration, envy, and deep, indestructible love.
The girls do everything together, whether trying on makeup. Or swimming.
Or riding invisible bicycles.
When I went to sleep the night before, Robbi had finished exactly zero of 21 paintings.
By the time I woke up, they covered every available surface throughout the studio.
But the work was not complete. Robbi and her other husband Jon kept toiling as the sun rose.
The work was not yet done, and so Robbi’s pen kept flying.
Until the final sketch was inked.
I have never, and I mean never, successfully stayed up all night long, let alone spent an entire night cranking out amazing drawings.
But if the past eight years have taught me nothing else, it’s that I’m no Robbi.
My girl is nails. No part of this would be possible without her.