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.

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.

There's been no mess in Eva's high chair for eleven days now.  I'm looking forward to seeing it dirty again.

Looking at this picture, I wonder what other children—mine or someone else's—might sit in this chair some day hence.  Will it go to a friend, like the bassinet we gave away recently?  To Goodwill, perhaps?  I suppose I'll find out, eventually.

I took a walk with my dog this evening. Two miles around the neighborhood, I kept a leisurely pace and stopped every so often to take a picture. I noticed a lot of things, as I tend to do these days—the way the setting sun skimmed across the northern sides of the houses; the play of shadows on garage doors; the way a little breeze rippled the skirt of a mother at the elementary school playground, her hip thrust out to support one child as she watched another running through the grass. Mostly what I noticed was the quiet, though.

Of course, it's never completely quiet. A breeze would rustle the leaves of a jacaranda as I passed, or a car would drive by. As I crossed the mouth of one cul-de-sac, I heard the rumble of an air compressor and the shouts of childish delight at the simple joy of jumping in an inflatable castle. But these were only fleeting and sporadic. Mostly what I heard was my own footfalls, and the click-clack of my dog's claws on the concrete—the kinds of sounds you can only really notice against a backdrop of real quietness.

Arriving home, I set about filling the silence that now permeates my house, now that Juliette and the kids are 2500 miles away. The whir of the microwave, heating my meal of leftover rice and beans. Shelby Foote's mellifluous drawl as he chuckles over some anecdote revealing the character of some Confederate or Union general—still not enough to overcome the quiet, though, and I drifted off and dozed for a bit, awaking as "Ashokan Farewell" played over the credits. When was the last time I fell asleep on the couch? I don't know, but it's been a while.

This is what I've been doing every night for the past week, and what I imagine I'll do for the next week as well: filling the quiet. Being used to its absence—whether because of the laughter or tears of your children, or even just the television down the hall in our bedroom, lulling Juliette to sleep—quiet now just reminds me of how alone I am.

It's almost the same, though. I stay up late, just as I do when they're here, and my office is lit by the same dim lamp and bright computer screen as every night after Juliette turns in. And after, when I finally admit defeat to my own need for sleep, I walk into the same darkened hallway, and for a moment I can pretend that past each bedroom doorway will be one of them, quietly sleeping. And when I reach my own room, turn out the light, and slide under the blanket, in the dark I can pretend that Juliette is beside me, there just past the part of the bed that I can feel.

It's quiet, and I let the sound of my own breathing, my own heartbeat, carry me off to sleep. In the morning, things will look better again, and I'll be one day closer to seeing them again.

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.

On Sunday we hauled the kiddie pool out of the garage for the first time this summer. It was also Eva's first time in there, so of course we both felt the need to document the occasion. Eva, of course, loved it, even though she wasn't such a fan of having sunscreen in her hair.

While Eva was taking a break to have a snack, Jason decided that he wanted to fill the pool some more. Of course, then it was too deep for his sister to rejoin him, so he took it upon himself to help empty it out again.

Eva wanted very much to get in on the game of Candyland that Jason and I were playing this morning. I would have gladly given her my spot, too, but it says very clearly on the box: "Ages 3+."