Lately we've been feeling like Eva has been looking bigger. Older and more grown up, yes, but actually physically larger, too. It makes sense, considering how much she eats—her meals are often larger than Jason's, and she eats just about anything.

It came as a bit of a surprise, then, to be reminded just how small she really is, when at Jason's party she was by far the smallest baby there. And that despite being one of the oldest.

I guess Juliette and I just make little babies. They seem to be turning out well otherwise, though, so we're fine with that. And I suppose it's nice that there's less strain on the arms this way.

Jason got to help his mom make the cupcakes for his birthday party on Saturday. I imagine that it won't be too terribly long before he stops wanting to help do anything—in any case, when it happens it won't feel like much time has passed—but for now he's still young enough that being a "helper" is a treat.

Juliette put some cherries in my lunch the other day, and I had fun spitting them into the garbage can by my desk.

It's kind of an odd thing, having my wife make my lunch for me. Nice, but odd. The feeling of opening a lunch bag and discovering what's inside is certainly a familiar one, but it's not one I've had regularly in quite a long time.

I've heard people say that all men want to be mothered, that we all just want to be boys again. I don't know to what degree this is true for me, but the possibility that it is true at all is something that I find a bit troubling. Perhaps I'm overthinking things.

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.

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.

Juliette's parents got Jason a bike for his birthday. He was, as you might imagine, quite excited about it. He was somewhat less enthusiastic about pedaling across ground that had even a mild incline, but I'm sure he'll get there.

Dear Jason,

You turned four yesterday. It was a pretty good day—you got to open presents and have a special breakfast with your aunt and uncle; you rode on a real bicycle for the first time; you got to skip your nap; you went to your friend's party at Pump It Up and had lots of fun, and you were very gracious in making sure that he got to be the special birthday boy, even though it was your birthday, too.

You've been doing a lot of that lately, being reasonable and gracious and well-behaved. You do still have your outbursts, but you do seem to have left your threes behind. I love being able to talk with you, now that you're old enough to have real conversations. I love seeing you talk with your friends and your sister, too.

Speaking of your sister, when I wrote your birthday letter last year I mentioned some of the things you thought you'd do when you got to be a big brother. As it has turned out, you have given your sister lots of gentle hugs and kisses (and a few less gentle ones), but you haven't driven my car yet. I said last year that I thought you'd be a good big brother, and you are. I know that sometimes it's hard to have a baby sister, because babies get lots of attention and they don't know not to hit or bite or pull hair. Sometimes you get upset, but even then you're always sweet with Eva. It makes me proud to see the way you take care of her.

This afternoon when were watching gymnastics, you said that you were going to go to the Olympics. You said you were a really fast runner and a really good swimmer. (Then you were surprised that Mommy and I never went to the Olympics.) I don't know if you'll be an Olympian some day, but maybe you will. I love that you already dream big. I hope you can still dream that big when you get to be a grown-up.

I love you, buddy. Happy belated birthday.

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.)

At the end of every bath, Jason likes to fill up these cups and then—once the tub has drained—pour the water from the big cup to the little one, then dump the little one onto his head. Tonight he was very gracious in holding still and out of sight while I took this shot.

As I'm sure you could tell, I was pretty lonely while Juliette and the kids were away. That was, for the most part, kind of pathetic. One good thing did come out of it, though: I spent a lot of time going through my photo archives, and in doing so I hit upon an idea for a new series.

This is the first image I made with the series in mind; I shot it two nights before the family came home. I like it, and I think it works to communicate what I had in mind, but I have a hard time judging my own work. So rather than telling you what I think about it, I'd love to know what you all think.

If you have a minute, click through to see it large and look it over. Leave a comment and tell me what you think the picture is about and how it makes you feel. What do you like about it? What do you think could be better? I'm looking forward to hearing from you.