"Hey buddy, can I have a hug?"

"Yeah."

He wrapped his arms around my neck, and his shoulder dug into my throat a little. He does that a lot--it's uncomfortable, but I like that he hugs me tightly.

I looked down at him, and for the millionth time I'm struck by what a beautiful child my son is. "You're a handsome boy, you know that?"

"Yeah," he said, "I know that."

I remember being a child and having my parents or their friends tell me that I was good-looking. I think I must have had the same casual confidence about my appearance when I was his age, but, for the life of me, I can't remember it.

When I was eleven a bully told me that I was ugly, and that's how I've seen myself ever since.

It's odd: I can't even find it in me to be angry about it anymore. I mean, what eleven-year-old has the perspective to see how devastating he can be to someone else's self-image, or how long-lasting the effects can be? I can't believe that any of them knew what they were doing.

And I have a good life. I have a wonderful family who I love and who love me. I'm successful at my job. I have a nice home filled with nice things, and I have the wherewithal to fill my spare time obsessing about things like single-malt Scotch, or visual art, or finding out which kinds of oolong teas suit my preferences the best. That I never feel sexy is a fairly minor inconvenience, all things considered.

But still, it's not something that anybody should have to go through. And when I chuckle at the conceit in my four-year-old son's voice when he says he knows he's handsome, I also can't help but think: he really is a beautiful boy, and it would break my heart if some day he couldn't believe it when someone told him so.

It's silly, I suppose, to worry about something that probably won't happen, but that's parenthood for you.

The last of the semi-decent shots from my last roll of film.

Lately I've been really drawn to more minimalist images. Just lines, textures, shadows, curves, a pure aesthetic that doesn't really have a deeper meaning or tell a story. Except that everything tells a story. A patched crack in an asphalt road, cracked again right through the patch. A story of age and wear and, I suppose, futility. But there's no context; this could be anywhere.

Truth be told, it's cracks like that that are one of the biggest reasons we want to move out of our neighborhood. But that's a different story.

Film and processing turned out to be kind of expensive, so I've had to hold off on buying more for a while. I stretched out the last roll for a while, but eventually it ran out--I got my pictures back from the lab today. This one was from a walk around the neighborhood a couple of weeks ago.

Another trip through the archives tonight as I'm gearing up for Jason's birthday. This one was from our trip to Virginia to visit my parents this spring. I was testing out my medium format camera a lot during that trip, but, sadly, it turned out to be busted--only one shot in three was exposed properly. I really miss the experience of medium format; it was a lot of fun.

(I miss my parents, too, just so you know.)

A little archive diving today.  This is where we got Jason's last birthday cake.  They've apparently been making delicious cakes for 30 years now.  I have no idea how long they've had the weird chef statue.

It slipped my mind, somehow, that Juliette has taken up knitting recently. I wonder what she's been working on while she's been away.

When Jason watches TV he tends to lose track of whatever else is going on in the room. One usually has to speak loudly and stand directly in front of him in order to get his attention. At least he comes by it honestly, though.

I finally got my photo library more or less intact again, so I felt like celebrating. Balloons always seem like a party to me.

Eva loves being in water. She loves taking a bath, she loves the kiddie pool, and she loves the real pool. She hasn't been in the ocean yet, not really, but I'm sure she'll love that, too.