Ozzy is out of reach, crying in his car seat.

“Say something nice to your brother, Hank.”

Hank leans in to gaze at Ozzy, caresses his cheek.

“Farty poop,” Hank coos. “Faaaarty poop.”

And Ozzy laughs.

Resolved! See more art.

We visited the Legion of Honor this weekend with our museum buddy Michelle. It’s one of the most lovely museums in San Francisco, stunning views of the Golden Gate bridge, but it’s way out on the edge of town. I’ve only been maybe twice in 15 years. Some of my favorite pieces:

Love a good side-eye statue.

They had a Pierre Bonnard exhibition going on, and I found The Bath, one of my favorite paintings. I had a postcard of this pinned to the wall of my room through college.

Ozzy wants to walk very much, but is concerned about falling. So he yells to be set down, stands for a minute, then crawls back to you and yells until you pick him up again. We had a good time.

Brad and I are getting married in July, and the wedding dress hunt is a bust so far, possibly because my brain is skipping on the cotton-candy-ripple-cha-cha pictured above.

Christian Siriano is the designer, remember him from Project Runway? I saw this image of it in Darcy Miller‘s Instagram feed and barely refrained from licking my phone screen.

It is impressively, and justifiably, out of my price range. But! The per-wearing cost would bring it well into budget. I could drape myself over a fainting couch every morning and eat breakfast bonbons in my own personal joy cloud.

Ozzy is eight months old, and we take a Christmas bath in the deep tub at his grandparents’ house.

He is a slick terror, this wet, naked baby, excited about water. He arches back, takes a deep inhale of his bathwater, and comes up baffled. I am horrified, utterly responsible.

I dip my neck to level our faces. Ozzy coughs at me a few times, staring hard with red eyes. Then he turns away and resumes splashing.

I call at his dad with my heart in my mouth.

“Look up dry drowning.” I say.

“What?”

“Dry drowning. It’s a thing. I am freaking out.”

Brad consults the appropriate search engine results, and assures me that dry drowning is very rare, and much more dramatic. Ozzy looks fine, he says.

Still. Do you see the feathers on his soft baby head? The way his neck bunches up on itself?

His skin, and his squeaks, and his fat splashing hands, have me praying the Parent Prayer Universal.

Keep breathing tiny baby. Keep breathing. Forever and ever, amen.

Thanks for the photo Jenny!

I’m forty years old this morning, typing this while the sun comes up. When they learn I’m turning forty, people mostly ask if I’m okay with it. They have concerned faces because they can see the bony fingers of decrepitude encircling my neck.

Thanks for the photo, Miss Bex!

But I feel happy. Life is on a major upswing right now, and I’m riding this rollercoaster hill to the mothrafrocking top. I can barely even see the flags from here.

P.S. Everyone needs a giant pool flamingo.

Hank dressed himself today. If I know my kid, he chose the most available item of clothing from each drawer — a tank top and shorts, soccer socks, skater sneakers, and a blazer when I told him he needed a jacket.

So off we go to the beach for some pickup soccer, then a few Ollies at the skate park, topped off with dessert at the yacht club. Lifestyle goals.

The little guy just rolled over by himself. I’m feeling pretty good that he didn’t roll off of anything in the process. Parenting skills, unsurpassed.

The danger is real.