"I can't decide which one of these I should choose for tomorrow's daily photo. The one of Jason is really cute and I like the way it shows his personality. But I also think the Potato Head one is good—it's kind of bizarre and cute at the same time, and it shows his personality, too."

"Can't you put more than one?"

"No. It's a daily photo not daily photos. That's the format."

"It's nice to see a series sometimes, though. That way you get to see different moments and they all add up."

"Yeah..."

"It's your web site. Do whatever you want."

"I guess I could add the self-portrait and make a triptych out of it."

"A what?

"A triptych. That's when you put three pictures together in panels."

"Oh, yeah, that might be good."

"OK, let's see what I can do with this."

Dear Jason,

When I wrote to you a year ago, I said that you didn't know what birthdays were yet. I think you have an inkling now, since you've been to six birthday parties in the last month alone, including your own. You tell people "Happy birthday!" when you get to the party, and you know to expect cake. At your birthday party you ate two cupcakes, and you had a third after dinner.

It's been a full year for you, and for me. You had your first trip to the hospital in September, for your ear tubes, and I learned that I could worry more than I thought possible. In October you had your first trip to the dentist, but only because you almost knocked one of your teeth out when you fell on your face. And in May you had your first stomach flu, which I think may have been almost as upsetting for me and your mom as it was for you.

It hasn't been all bad stuff, of course. You had your first Christmas in Big Sur with your Nana and Abba. You had your first trip to Virginia to see your Grandma and Grandpa. You went to your first baseball game, which you liked. You went to soccer class for the first time, which you didn't (and don't) like. You've really started to love the pool, and you're almost swimming on your own now. You're so brave that it takes my breath away.

You've always been independent and full of energy. You've only become more so this year. Sometimes that means you're squealing with joy as you play with me or your mom, or your friends. Sometimes it means you're screaming at the top of your lungs and kicking your heels against the floor in a full-on temper tantrum. It's given your mom and me the opportunity to really learn how to be patient. You've made us better parents. You make us better people.

As I write this, you're off at SeaWorld with your mom and your Nana. I wish I could be there with you—I know you're going to have a great day. I can't wait to see you when I get home.

I love you.

"Your grandma gave us those bowls?"

"Yeah. I remember because she didn't usually like to buy new things to give as gifts."

"Huh. Yeah, they don't seem like her style. It's a good thing I have you around, otherwise I'd never remember anything. The only thing I can remember your grandma giving us is that blue pitcher/vase thing from Pinecroft."

"What are you talking about? You mean the one that says 'Sandam' on it?"

"No that one is gray. You know, the blue pitcher. It has a handle, and it's from Pinecroft."

"We don't have a blue pitcher from Pinecroft."

"Yes, we do. I know we do."

"I think you're remembering a bunch of other things and putting it all together in your head."

"No, I have a really specific memory of this pitcher."

"We have a blue pitcher that we got for our wedding, but it's not from Pinecroft. And we have the 'Sandam' vase that my grandma got us, and that's from Pinecroft, but it's not blue."

"Let me look for it. Is it down here? No..."

"Is this the one you're talking about?"

"No, I know that's the one we got for our wedding. No, it's like the 'Sandam' one, but blue. And with a handle. Where is it?"

"You're remembering wrong again."

"No, it's here somewhere. Aha! This one!"

"Oh, yeah."

"See? It's blue and it has a handle."

"Yeah."

"And it's from Pinecroft."

"Yeah."

"And your grandma gave it to us."

"Yeah."

"'Oh, Mike never remembers anything. You're just remembering a bunch of other things and making it up in your head.' Ha ha! I feel like I could do a little dance."

"OK, fine, sometimes you're right."

I didn't actually do a dance, mind you. This is way more obnoxious.

I love you, honey!

This summer, Monday is Water Day at Jason's day care. As you can see, he is all set.

We ate dinner out on the patio on Saturday evening, the weather being nice and Juliette's family—in town for his birthday party—being partial to al fresco dining. The menu was pretty simple: grilled steaks, steamed broccoli, corn on the cob, and salad. We cleared the plates as usual afterwards, then brought out some leftover cupcakes from the party.

Jason was, as you might imagine, pleased to have more sweets, though he took and then rejected three different cupcakes before settling on the one he actually wanted. "Want red!" he'd say. Then, when presented with a red-frosted cupcake: "No. Blue one." Then, "That one," pointing at the yellow cupcake.

Finally settling on, I think, a blue one, Jason only took a couple of bites before something else caught his attention. "Dip! Dip! That one!" he shouted, pointing insistently. It happened that we had left the little bowl of what Juliette's dad calls "Sakasegawa Sauce"—a mixture of mayonnaise and soy sauce that we sometimes use for dipping with steamed vegetables. Her dad likes it a lot, so he mixed up a little batch for the meal, and had a lot of fun introducing it to Jason, calling it "dippedy doodle" and laughing.

"Jason," we tried to explain, "that doesn't go on cupcakes."

He was, of course, having none of that. "Dip! Dip!"

"No, that's yucky! Not on the cupcakes. Yuck!"

"Diiiiip! That one!"

We went back and forth for a while, but eventually we just gave up and dipped the cupcake into the mayo mixture for him. After all, it's not like it would actually hurt him, and finding out for himself that the two tastes were gross when put together would be much more convincing than anything we could say.

Jason took a bite of the mayo-and-soy-covered corner of the cupcake. We waited for the reaction. He chewed, swallowed, then turned to us and held out the cupcake. "More?" he asked.

Well, who were we to argue with that? He happily ate the rest of his vanilla cupcake with each bite dipped in mayo and soy sauce. He didn't know it was supposed to taste bad, so it didn't.

The rest of us kept our own council, though, and just stuck with the normal frosting.

Jason got a new toy from his Grandma for his birthday: a kitchen set. He loves it, and has been super excited to play with it ever since it magically appeared by the dining table one morning. This is him on that morning, putting two cups, a salt shaker, and two bowls into the oven. He's not doing that anymore, but for whatever reason, he thinks the phone goes in the microwave, and his wind-up dolphin toy ("MY NEW DOLPHIN!") goes in the fridge. He refuses to entertain any notions to the contrary.

I went into this with the best of intentions.

I remember watching an episode of Six Feet Under with Juliette once, in which one of the characters responds to his brother's morning greeting with a detailed description of his baby daughter's feces. Not in complaint, mind you, or for gross-out value. No, no, this guy was proud of his daughter's poop. This poop was an accomplishment. The best, most interesting poop ever. This is what new (-ish) parents do to their siblings over morning coffee, I guess. Talk about poop.

"Oh God," I said to Juliette with a roll of my eyes. "Is that going to be me some day?"

"If you don't want to be that way, then just don't be that way," she replied.

"I'm not going to be that guy. Please don't let me be that guy."

People, I am that guy.

This morning after breakfast, I was in the middle of composing an email when Jason walked back into the kitchen, his mother having just finished dressing him.

"Owie!" he yelled. I looked over, and he was bent over and holding his crotch.

"Does your penis hurt?" I asked.

"Yeah," he replied. This is not unexpected. He complains about his penis a lot. He also laughs about it a lot. Let's just admit it: the kid likes to talk about his penis. I would normally dismiss this with a kind word and a hug, but it dawns on me that the little step he's doing looks a lot like a pee-pee dance.

"Do you have to go pee pee?" I asked. "Do you want to sit on the potty?"

"Yeah!" he whined back, and ran for the bathroom.

We've been doing this for several weeks now. Jason claims to have to pee, we take him to the bathroom and let him sit on the potty, shortly after which—nothing having happened down below—he declares "All done!" and then wants to go play in the living room. I might have expected this time to play out the same way, but there was a certain, shall we say, urgency to his body language that made me think this might be the time.

It took some coaxing. He was ready to give up early again. I convinced him to sit a little longer, to let the pee out. That's what I actually said to him. "Let the pee pee out, Jason. Push." I honestly never thought I would say those words to anybody. I mean, I guess if you'd asked me, I might have shrugged and said "Yeah, I guess," but it just never crossed my mind. Some day I will be telling someone, in all earnestness, to let the pee pee out.

A little grunting and a look of concentration came and passed. "I did it!" Jason declared.

"Really?" I asked, not quite sure if I believed him. (Jason's idea of truth is a little flexible, you see.)

"Yeah!" he said.

"OK then," I said. "Now stand up, and we'll look and see what you... Whoa, that's not pee pee!" Staring me back at me from the little basin my son just stood up from is a little pile of poop.

And here's the thing: it didn't even occur to me to be grossed out. Quite the contrary; I cheered. "Yay Jason!" I shouted. "You pooped in the potty! What a big boy! I'm so proud of you! Yay!"

If you had asked me five years ago if I would ever be elated to witness someone defecating, I would have wrinkled my nose. Sure, I understood that you have to make a big deal out of successes when you're potty training a child, you have to act like you're excited about it. But surely that's all it would be: a show of positive emotion, masking the underlying truth that I had just had to watch another human take a dump.

Nope. I really was as excited as I sounded. So excited, in fact, that I had to tell you all about it.

Yep, I'm definitely that guy now.

I like lifting Jason over my head and making noises at him. He likes it, too. Sunday, in the park, I wanted to see if I could still pick him up with one hand. Turns out I can. For now.

"You didn't bring your camera? I'm shocked! Why not?"

"Well, I didn't want to be obnoxious."

"Then why are you taking so many pictures?"

"Because you gave me a camera."

*

The band kicks off an uptempo, swinging number. Juliette and I admire a couple of Lindy Hoppers from our picnic blanket.

"Up, up!" demands Jason. I scoop him up, both of us laughing, and we bop along to the rhythm. I get a twinkle in my eye, and toss him in the air; he shrieks with joy. Here's someone I can do all of those cool swing lifts and tosses with, where my wimpy arms fail me with someone my own age. Jason loves it.

The song ends. Jason claps. "Yay!"

*

"What do you think about me singing in a swing band for my next hobby?"

"I think you should do it! Ha!"

"I don't know, I think maybe you should stick with this photography thing a little longer."

*

Stopped at a light on the way home, waiting to turn onto the on-ramp:

"The thing I don't get about these photographers I follow is that they all seem to be married, and yet they never seem to be home, and certainly never around dinnerti... Whoa. Now that would make a good picture."

"It's definitely a picture. Wow."

Ahead of us is a steel blue Cadillac convertible with fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror. The driver and passenger have leaned toward each other for a passionate kiss, their sun-kissed blond hair fluttering as a slight breeze picks up. The sun is just about to duck behind the hill behind us, the last golden light of the day making the two of them glow.

*

Pulling onto the freeway, the sunlight smacks Jason in the face. He yelps and claps his hands over his eyes. A few seconds pass before he lifts his hand slightly, peeking out from underneath. The sun is still there, still bright; back goes the hand. But he keeps peeking, his features taking on an expression that almost dares the sun to still be there. The sun gives up and hides behind a hill.

Jason likes cake. Can you tell?