It's the end of December in San Francisco, which means I can't comfortably wear flip-flops and occasionally there are some leaves on the sidewalk. We passed that annual milestone, the turning-on of the heater, which makes a pleasant boom below us in the garage before hot air seeps upward through three of the four wall vents (the office will always, always be cold). In the morning I prop Gargantubaby's clothes on the living room vent before crawling into bed with him and stripping him naked before he's fully awake so he won't scream about being shoved into cold jeans. It's on mornings like these, when he balls his fists and yells "MOMMY!!!!!" with a look of rage and helplessness that I recognize so well that I think, Thank god I only have one.

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