Parenthood is always a bit of a balance between utter chaos and quiet profundity. Sometimes both at once.

If we let him, Jason would put his entire room into his bed before going to sleep—he'd fall asleep on top of a giant pile of books and toys, which he would then proceed to kick onto the floor over the course of the night. It's looking like Eva will be the same way.

Lifting your daughter over your head and listening to the sound of her laughter, then ignoring the fact that your arms are tired when your son asks for a turn, because it's fair, and anyway it's worth it to hear him laugh, too.

Sending your son to "time out" because he threw a ball at your face, even though you had just told him not to; listening to him scream about not wanting to, but not giving in; ending the whole thing with an explanation and a hug; and knowing that, even though he'll do it again, he means it when he says he won't.

Getting choked up at the card your son "wrote" for you, even though in it he says that you're 12 years older than you are and makes a big deal about how much you like to eat beans.

Taking a moment to marvel at how tiny and adorable your daughter's feet are—even though they are so much bigger than they were just a few months ago—then having your reverie interrupted by noticing that her toenails are getting long and wondering whether to go get the clippers or just bite them.

Ultimately, a difficult thing to summarize or quantify, and maybe the most important thing you've ever done.

She's so close. Tonight she managed to make it about one and a half steps before her legs got tangled up in each other. She was so proud of herself, with such a big smile on her face, I couldn't help but be excited for her. It's an exhilarating thing, watching your kids grow up.

I imagine that a lot of people, when they look at these photos (I flatter myself that a lot of people look at them), think that I'm telling my kids' stories. The thing is, even as young as they are, there's too much about their internal life that is hidden for me to ever be able to tell their stories.

No, the only story I can really tell is my own. My own narrative for my life intersects theirs, maybe it runs alongside for a while, but they're not the same. Some day they may look back at these pictures (I hope they do) and see something they recognize, but what it means to them will be different from what it means to me. If I'm a good enough photographer, though, maybe seeing themselves the way I saw them will help them see me the way I see myself. I suppose, ultimately, that's the reason behind everything I do.

Nobody tells you this—or maybe it's just me—but on that first day, the day when you meet your baby for the first time and she meets, well, everything for the first time.  On that day, you don't know her, not yet.  She's a stranger.  But little by little you get to know her, you get to know every little thing about her, like what her ears smell like and how her cry is different when she's afraid and when she's outraged.  And then one day you look at her and you realize that you love her, so much that you have to stop yourself from constantly talking about her IN ALL CAPS, so much that just the sight of her inquisitive little face makes your chest hurt. And you've been loving her for a long time now but it snuck up on you, so you didn't notice it happening when it was happening, but BANG, here it is now. Nobody tells you this, but there it is.

Juliette and I took Eva to the post office today during my lunch break to apply for her passport. She'll be accompanying Juliette and Jason on their trip to Canada later this summer, but that's really neither here nor there.

Afterwards the three of us had lunch together. At one point during the meal, I looked over and saw a young woman wearing a pair of shorts that was by no means the shortest pair I'd seen this month, but still fairly short. This isn't unusual, times being what they are and today being a sunny day in San Diego.

I turned to Eva and asked, "Are you going to wear short shorts when you get older?" Eva didn't dignify the question with a response, and continued stuffing Cheerios into her mouth. (One at a time! With a proper pincer grip and everything!) I had to admit that it was a fairly dumb question; after all, this is San Diego and that's what the kids are doing these days.

And of course it isn't just "these days." I was flipping through a slideshow at Time's LightBox this evening and I couldn't help but notice that the shorts in 1983 were pretty short, too. (And not just the girls' shorts.)

I also read today's article at NYT's Lens blog, about Iranian girls and youth culture and Westernization and oppression and morality police. And these images and the story that goes along with them, it outrages me. The thought that some group of men goes around Tehran, ordering women to cover their hair or detaining them if their clothes are deemed too provocative just incenses me. As it also outrages me when I hear people claim that it's about protecting women, or that this sort of modesty is empowering—because how can it be empowering not to have the choice?

And yet... And yet... I'm also increasingly appalled at the hypersexualization of young women. I don't want my daughter to go out wearing shorts that leave her butt cheeks hanging out the bottom. I don't want her to look like that.

It's not because I'm a prude. (Well, maybe a little bit.) It's not because I don't want her to have sex. It's not because I have a problem with sexuality or even promiscuity (for people who are mature enough to understand and deal with the consequences, positive and negative.) It's because I don't want her to define herself by this one narrow view of what men want. I don't want her to engage in that kind of attention-seeking—or, at least, if she must seek attention I don't want it to be only that kind of attention. And I know that there must surely be women who dress scantily for reasons other than attracting sexual partners, who don't define their worth by their image but I feel—rightly or wrongly—that many (most?) are dressing that way because of this ridiculous standard of beauty and worth that is mostly about male attention. And this is especially true of young girls. And I don't want that for my girl.

And yet... And yet... I do want her to feel beautiful. (Maybe because I never have.) And I want to tell her she's beautiful and not have to feel guilty about it. I want her to be confident in her appearance, not confined by it.

And I have to admit that I am, ultimately, a hypocrite. Because what are the most common compliments I offer her mother? I tell her she looks nice, or that her clothes look nice, or that she's beautiful, or desirable. And, yes, I do tell her other nice things, too, but not as often, if I'm being honest. When I do this, what kind of self-image am I setting up for my daughter? Does it even matter that these are compliments my wife wants to hear?

At the end of it all, what does it mean to be a good father to a daughter, a good husband to a wife, a good man? What is it that makes me different from the morality police? How can I raise a daughter who is strong in her character and secure in her sexuality, who is not beholden to the male gaze? And is it even my place to be deciding how she ought to be?

I wish I had the answers to these questions, but I don't. I hope that some day I will, or at least that I don't mess things up too badly.

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Edit:

Just after I posted this, a female Facebook friend of mine posted a link to a YouTube video described as the "BEST Pole Dance Ever." And, watching it, the dance was impressive both for its aesthetics and its athleticism. The performer clearly has training in contemporary dance and it was perhaps the least overtly sexual pole dance I've ever seen. But I just don't know what to make of the whole pole-dance phenomenon. Is this empowering women by giving them a way to reclaim their sexuality on their own terms, or is it really just a way of getting women to participate in their own exploitation?

It's just too much for me. I don't know if I'll ever know what to think about it all.

I mentioned that my camera is kind of busted—well, my first reaction upon seeing this frame was annoyance, followed by chagrin. You can get enough of a sense of what each individual capture looked like to tell that both of them would have been keepers for this particular assignment, and knowing that I'd lost them to a camera error both frustrated me and made me sad. As the days go by, though, I find that the result of that error is really sticking in my mind.

I'm not usually one for camera tricks, and multiple exposures are usually one of the first things that you play with as a budding photography student—certainly my friends and I all did, back in high school. Moreover, I tend to view art as something purposeful, and the accidental nature of this image's genesis is the sort of thing that makes me think it's a throwaway.

And yet, I can't stop thinking about it.

There's just something about the chaos of it all, the happenstance. The way things come together at odd angles, and the way that the little gestures of each individual exposure come through on their own while still seeming to contribute to the resultant whole. I find it compelling.

Maybe I'm reaching, but I think there's something there.

It's going to happen soon. She's going to be crawling, maybe even before my birthday.

When she was newly born and she was so quiet and easy-going, I worried that perhaps she wouldn't be motivated enough to get around on her own. Maybe she would be one of those happy little lumps that always made us say (after we'd left the party) "You know, Jason may be kind of a handful, but I'm glad to have a kid that's at least interesting." (I know, we were assholes. Some of us still are.¹)

But, no, Eva's got spark. She wants to get around. When I got home from work today I saw that she had pushed herself backwards into a corner and gotten stuck; as soon as she saw me—but not before—she cried for help. And every little thing that catches her attention, she wants it. She's not content and boring. No, this one is motivated.

I'm so happy to know that it runs in the family.

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¹ I mean me, of course. No one who has met both of us would ever be confused about that.

The shutter on my medium format camera (a Bronica ETRS) sticks sometimes. Fortunately, there's a little indicator light in the viewfinder that blinks when the shutter has properly actuated, and when it doesn't blink I just flip the double exposure switch and reshoot the same frame. Unfortunately, when I don't see the blinking light I'm never sure whether it didn't actually blink or if I just missed it. So I end up with a lot of unintentional double (or triple or quadruple) exposures. This one just happened to work out well.

This is what happens when Jason is bored while we're waiting for a table at a restaurant and he sees me take out the camera. Fortunately, Eva didn't mind at all.