I keep taking this picture. I don't know how many times it's been now, and most of them I don't keep, but I still keep taking it.

Lately I've been worrying that I've begun to repeat myself photographically, like maybe I've run out of things to say. I've been frustrated because I think it's true. And yet I still can't stop myself from taking this picture.

I keep hearing that an artist—especially a photographer, and especially a photographer who takes pictures of his own family—needs to avoid sentimentality. And I think that's true, so maybe I'm not much of an artist. Maybe I never will be. Would that be OK with me? I think it should be, but I suspect it might not. Either way, I can't not take this picture.

At some point I won't be able to take this picture anymore, because he'll be old enough to bathe himself. And then because he'll be grown up and gone from the house. I take this picture over and over again because I can't help being overwhelmed by how beautiful it is, and I suppose because I'm aware of how little time I have left to take it.

I had a reviewer tell me once that photographs—artistic photographs, anyway—needed to be about more than making memories permanent, and I agree. I tell myself that I have loftier reasons for taking pictures: that a story shared can be transformative for both the listener and the speaker; that photography is my way of working through and understanding the experiences of my life, experiences that are both personal and universal; that I simply want to make something beautiful and put it into the world. And maybe all that is true. I hope it is. But I think maybe I really take pictures because my life goes by so fast, and I need to slow it down, to give myself something to hold onto.

Is that a good enough reason? It's good enough to keep me doing it. But maybe it's not enough to make me the kind of artist I'd like to be. I don't know why I care about that—I think I ought to know, but so far it's been too much to get my arms around.

But, whatever. It's a nice picture. Juliette will like it. It's enough.

When Juliette's sister upgraded her phone recently, she donated her old one to the Keeping Eva Entertained Foundation. Fortunately, we took the SIM card out and Eva hasn't yet figured out how to turn on the wi-fi.

Yesterday we went to Mission Beach and paid four dollars for a serving of cherry-flavored shaved ice that was truly ridiculous in size. I'm pretty sure it was bigger than Jason's head. Passers-by were actually pointing at it and laughing, it was so big. Between the fact that there was so much of it and the fact that it didn't really taste very good, none of us were terribly put out when we spilled some.

I'm guessing that that look is common to all children when they watch television, and not just mine.

This is Eva and her Tico Rico (as he's been called ever since a two-year-old Jason was unable to properly pronounce the Spanish word for "uncle"). For the first couple of months after she first met her Tico, Eva would burst into tears whenever he entered the room. Now, though, she adores him. This is actually a rare shot of her being near him without a huge smile.

Can't say much for the composition, but I like the expression on the kid's face.

Juliette's Canadian aunt and cousin are visiting, so we all went to Disneyland over the weekend, where I took a whole bunch of truly terrible street shots. I don't think I'm ever going to be much as a street photographer, but occasionally I get one I like.

The other night I forgot to make Eva clean up her toys before she went to bed, so I asked Jason to put them away for me. Then when I went to check on the job he'd done, I found this. Fortunately, he does appear to understand the difference between real babies and toy ones.

Jason prefers to play with Eva's hand-me-downs. Eva prefers to play with boxes. Somehow it all seems to work out. For now.

Eva was very excited to show me this when I got home the other day. I don't know, I think she might like Elmo, or something.