Toddler wakes at 4:40 a.m., and dad brings him into bed. Little guy struggles against sleep for half an hour, whispering “play” and “oh hi!” every few minutes. Finally he drapes himself over my neck, one knee in my right boob, and konks out. I’m laying here trying to decide whether this is more or less comfortable than being nine months pregnant.

Pip posted a new taking stock list, and it hit me just right. She included a blank list so we can play along:

Making : So much! As you know, I’ve been doing a lot of election projects. We sold out of most of our I’m With Nasty merchandise, and made a $2K donation to Hillary. And I edited the interviews for Helena’s The Pussy Project. Man, I’ve missed editing.

Cooking : Brad is allergic to eggs, so in the mornings, I fry some onions, garlic, tomato, basil, and ground turkey or beef to make a meat scramble. It’s really good, and easy for the toddler to eat. We call it Beefy Crumbles, and there’s a little song to go along.

Drinking : I just restocked my tea pantry, and it feels so lux, ahhhhhhh. Right now, I’m doing an experiment to see whether I want to stick with my regular Earl Grey, or start brewing a pot of black tea and adding drops of Bergamot oil to taste. Are you on the edge of your seats, my bookish friends?

Reading: I’m skipping between three books written by friends, Grace Bonney’s In the Company of Women, Luvvie Ajayi’s I’m Judging You, and Jenny Lawson’s Furiously Happy. Also, just started on The Paris Wife, which one of you recommended, so thank you!

Trawling: Sites of people I like and admire, like Tina Roth Eisenberg, Jessica Hische, and of course Pip. This joint needs a redesign like whoa. And speaking of work I admire, I’m officially a patron of Kottke.org.

Wanting: Colorful clothes. I finally have time to be interested in clothes again, but most things in the closet are residual pregnancy and postpartum clothes, which means grey and stretchy. They don’t put nearly enough of the “ho” in “ho-hum.”

Looking: At this baby. All day every day. You know that thing where your kid gets old enough to walk without danger of falling, and you tilt your head up for the first time in years? We’re not there yet.

Deciding: What to make for Thanksgiving. I’m still perfecting my forever menu, but this sweet potato recipe is incredible. Also, I’ll take a ham over a turkey any day. That bird is such a pain in my ass.

Wishing: I could spend the night in a bookstore. Can I spend the night in your bookstore?

Enjoying: Our new glass house. Once a week or so, we all bunk in the one enormous room with lofted beds, and everything gets so quiet calm when the kids go to sleep, and you can even hear them breathing, and then when Ozzy burbles around 6:30 and we all pile into one bed and doze all mushed up together until the sun fills the room. I wish we were there now.

I need some sleep, so I’m skipping the rest of the list, but if you’d like to do it, leave yours or a link to yours in the comments. Full list on Pip’s site.

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.