Jason started figuring out how to dance a while ago. Until recently he really only had one move: bouncing up and down. That's probably because that's mainly what Juliette and I do when we're showing him how to do it—bounce at the knees in time to the rhythm, sometimes adding in shoulders or arms. It's very cute when he bops along, especially since he invents his own highly syncopated beat.

In the last couple of weeks he's shown us that his repertoire is expanding:

(Just in case anyone is curious, that thing on his belly is a band-aid that he had been playing with.)

Yesterday after picking up Jason, Juliette decided to stop in at Babies 'R Us to pick up a few things. When she got there, she realized that we still had some money left on a gift card that we'd gotten for Jason's birthday. "Jason picked out a couple of things he wanted," she told me, recounting the story to me when I got home.

Now, I wasn't sure quite what to make of that statement at first, since, after all, Jason can hardly talk and while he certainly does have desires and ways of making them known, he's never actually picked anything out for himself. But it turns out it really was true, as Juliette explained to me. When they were walking through the aisles looking at the toys and books, Jason actually looked things over and saw some things that caught his fancy: a two-pack of spiky rubber balls (one large, about 7 or 8 inches in diameter, the other small, about 3 inches), and a book that had Elmo on the cover.

The rest of the way through the store, he clutched his new prizes to his chest, both at the same time. When they got out to the car and Juliette opened the package of balls, he took both of them and the book and tried to hold onto all three all the way home. He could hardly get his arms around all of it, but he was clearly delighted. Then when he got home, he marched all over the living room and kitchen with his arms full, proclaiming "Ball, ball. Ball, ball." Occasionally he'd drop one and have to stop to pick it up, no mean feat for someone whose wingspan is only about two feet. It was apparently very cute, and I'm sorry to have missed it. Fortunately, Juliette did turn the camera on while she and Jason read the new book, so I got to see that. And so do you:

Today at about a quarter after four I found myself driving to the pediatrician's office to meet Juliette and Jason, he having injured himself falling face-first off of the toddlers' outdoor play structure at his daycare a bit under an hour beforehand. Juliette had already called me a couple of times by this point—the first time she hadn't seen him yet and the description of the accident she'd gotten over the phone had made it sound like he might have bitten through his lip and would need stitches. The second, it sounded like he had completely knocked out one of his front teeth. As I got onto the freeway, feeling disconcerted and vaguely panicked, it actually started raining. We've been in a heat wave for weeks and a drought for months—if I were the superstitious type it would be hard not to take this as some sort of sign.

By the time I got to the doctor's office, the receptionist there was already on the phone with the pediatric dentist next door, getting us an appointment. Jason was sitting pretty quietly on Juliette's lap. His lips were intact, and his tooth hadn't been knocked out, but only barely—it had folded almost all the way back against the roof of his mouth as well as jamming back into his gum a bit. All things considered, he seemed in a pretty good mood, though he did seem a little dazed. He didn't cry at all while we waited to see the dentist, and only fussed when we kept him away from the waiting room toys. (He has a tendency to put things in his mouth, and we wanted neither to get blood on the toys, nor for him to bite down on one and hurt his tooth even more.)

We didn't have to wait too long to see the doctor. We actually ended up seeing the orthodontist, the pediatric dental specialist being out of town. He took an x-ray—which Jason actually sat still for—then consulted with the dentist over the phone. When he came back in to talk to us, the news was relatively good: the root didn't look damaged, so they were going to try just pushing the tooth back in place. It would still be a little iffy after that—he said there was about a 50-50 chance that the tooth would survive, but that was actually much better that either Juliette or I had expected. By the time we got into the dentist's waiting room we were pretty much convinced that Jason would be looking like a jack-o-lantern just in time for Halloween. Which is funny, I guess, but we made the joke more than half to keep ourselves from crying.

I had to hold Jason while the doctor pushed the tooth back into place. The technician instructed me to face him toward me on my lap and then lean him back with his head resting on my knees. He was pretty calm at first, but when I leaned him back he became unsettled and started to squirm a bit. I smoothed his hair and then held his hands and told him everything was OK, and when he calmed down I felt like a liar. And, sure enough, Jason did finally start to panic a bit when the doctor put his fingers in his mouth, and when he started pushing, Jason screamed. I have heard Jason scream in anger just as loudly any number of mornings, but knowing that he was screaming from pain and fear this time just about broke my heart. People talk about time seeming to slow down in intense moments. Well, I wouldn't say that time slowed down for me—I was completely aware that only a few seconds were passing. But still, the amount of things that happened in those seconds seems like more than should have been able to happen, the amount of detail was more than I should have been able to notice. Like the exact moment when the tears rolled out of Jason's eyes, or the color of the blood that welled out of his tooth socket when the doctor pushed. When it was over, I picked Jason back up and held him to my chest. He clung to me, and his breath smelled like blood. I only just stopped myself from crying. Remembering it now is almost as hard.

Afterwards, he struggled a lot when I put him into his seat in Juliette's car. Juliette said he screamed all the way home, though he was quiet when I got him out of the car. As I was driving home there was a really bright rainbow directly in front of me. It almost seemed like the universe was trying to apologize. For some reason, the idea of a rainbow as some sort of consolation prize made me angry. And then I realized I was angry at a rainbow and couldn't help but see how ridiculous it was.

The rest of Jason's evening went pretty smoothly—he sat very nicely with us and let us feed him without making a mess, and he laughed when we played with him after and enjoyed his bath even though we took out all of his bath toys. Right now he's sleeping peacefully. Except for the bit of swelling under his lip it could be any other night. We have a follow-up appointment in a couple of weeks, when we should be able to find out whether or not the tooth will survive. Until then, I'm just going to have to keep reminding myself that everything is OK. I expect Jason will be getting a fair amount of treats in the coming days.

My weekday mornings have developed a pattern over the last month or so. Juliette has to get to work early, which means that I get to wake up with Jason, give him his breakfast, get him changed and ready for day care. It's not always the best time, since neither Jason nor I are morning people, but it's interesting to say the least. To give you an example, here's how this morning went:

5:04 AM: I wake up to the sound of Jason starting to cry, but, mercifully, he manages to fall back asleep on his own.  I notice that I had forgotten to set the alarm clock for Juliette, which I tell her, also telling her the time. She tells me to turn the 6:00 alarm on, which I do, then I close my eyes again.

5:20 AM: Jason wakes up again and starts yelling. I can tell that he's not fully awake yet because although he's loud, he's not fully screaming. I stumble into the kitchen to fill a sippy cup with water, then go collect him from his room. He hasn't dumped his blanket over the side of his crib this morning and is just standing there at the rail, half-awake and crying. He quiets down as soon as I pick him up, which is a little unusual since he's usually thirsty. We head into the living room and I sit on the couch, offering him the cup. He's more tired than usual, I can tell, because he only sips for a few seconds before flopping over onto my chest—often he will drink the entire cup in one go. I lay back and close my eyes, patting him on the back to try to get him to go back to sleep. We doze for a while, but he stirs a lot, sometimes whimpering, sometimes even standing up. He kicks me in the crotch several times. Once, he starts to climb off of me, moving to flop head-first off the couch, but I catch him and put him back on my chest. I don't know why he does this in the mornings—I can tell that he's bone tired, but he refuses to let himself fall completely asleep. I let him climb down a couple of times and he tries to stand up, but he can't hold his head up—he leans down and rests his head on the ottoman. I think his eyes are closed, but I can't tell since the lights are off and it's still pretty dark out. When I pick him up, he cries.

6:20 AM: I finally give up on trying to coax Jason back to sleep. He's a bit more alert at this point, and anyway he's upset about something, though I don't know what and I doubt he does, either. I stand up with him in my arms and head back to his room to change his diaper. It's heavy with pee, but nothing else, so it goes pretty quickly, then we go over to the back door where the dog is waiting to be let out. We follow the dog into the yard and watch to make sure he pees in the right part of the yard, then go back inside, where I start making breakfast.

6:27 AM: Jason is tugging on my legs and flopping around, whining and pointing at the whole wheat toast, which burns my fingers as I take it out of the toaster oven so I can butter it. I've made two slices, one for him and one for me.  I cut his slice into small pieces, then pick him up, put him in his high chair, put a bib on him, and start giving him bits of toast, two small pieces at a time. He takes the bits and starts eating pretty quickly this morning—some mornings he just looks at the toast for a while before putting any in his mouth. I get him some milk and then pull up a chair next to his high chair and eat my slice of toast while passing him more little squares of his slice as he finishes the ones he has. I do this because if I give him the entire pile at once, he will probably get distracted and start throwing them around or shoving them on the floor instead of eating them. The dog likes when this happens—I, less so.

6:56 AM: Jason is now playing with his food, reaching up and dropping it into the "big boy" cup that he now has in addition to his sippy cup. Juliette had come in to grab a bite before she left and had some milk in a plastic cup, which made Jason frantic to have a cup of his own. She gave him one with a tiny bit of water in the bottom—he tried to drink it but ended up spilling most of it on his bib. He is now pushing bits of plum and banana around his high chair tray, what he hasn't smeared on his face and in his hair, so I remove the tray and clean his face, hands, and hair with a washcloth. Once he's clean, I take him out of the chair and let him run around. I've given him the cup—which I've washed because it had fruit smeared all over the outside—and he is making noises into it, laughing at the way the cup makes his voice echo. I smile, then turn to empty out the dishwasher and clean up his high chair.

7:10 AM: I'm in the middle of changing a poopy diaper when my phone rings. I ignore it for the time being, since I don't want to touch the phone before I wash my hands and, besides, if it's important they'll call back. Jason has, as usual, tried to grab his butt while I was changing him. "Hands out!" I say firmly, but he's already done it by that point. I can't tell if he got his hands dirty or not, but after I'm done cleaning and changing him, I carry him into the kitchen and wash his hands, then mine.

7:13 AM: There's a message from Juliette on my phone, so I call her back. She needs me to look something up in our filing cabinet, so I have to put Jason into his crib a little earlier than I might have otherwise. I make her wait while I pull out some books and a couple of toys and put them and him in his crib. I open the books for him and show them to him for a couple of seconds, then I quickly exit the room, closing the door behind me. He stays distracted long enough for me to get the paper Juliette needs and read it to her, but it's just a matter of time before he starts screaming.

7:18 AM: I start shaving and Jason starts crying. This is my least favorite part of the morning, but it's kind of necessary, too. I can't just let Jason run around unsupervised—even with all the babyproofing, there are still lots of things he can break and lots of ways for him to hurt himself. I've considered getting up at 4:30 to shower before he wakes up but I can't bring myself to do that yet, and I sweat too much in my sleep for showering at night to be an option. So, I have to listen to him cry while I get ready every morning. Sometimes he falls asleep. I don't think he will today, though.

7:49 AM: I'm now shaved, showered, and dressed. My hair is done and I've even decided to put some cologne on, though I'm not really sure why. The bed is unmade, but by now Jason is fully screaming. I get my shoes out and put them in the living room, put my bag in the kitchen, and throw a load of laundry in, then go back and pick up Jason. He has thrown both blankets, both books, both toys, and all of the stuffed animals he sleeps with over the side of the bed and is very angry that he can't reach them. But he calms down quickly after I pick him up, and I hold him and rock him for a few minutes before picking out his clothes. I tickle him and make faces at him while taking off his pajamas, and he laughs.

7:58 AM: Jason's dressed now. We head into the living room where I put his socks and shoes on, then my own. He likes watching me put my socks on, and likes playing with my feet after I have them on. We let the dog out again and watch to make sure he poops in the right part of the yard. For what seems like the millionth time, I reflect on how I never thought that watching a dog defecate would become such an integral part of my mornings.

8:04 AM: The dog is now in the car and Jason is strapped into his car seat. He's actually pretty patient while I change the CDs—I'm not in the mood to make up songs or point out stuff on the side of the road this morning, so I try to pick some stuff I know he likes.

8:09 AM: I'm in the middle of singing along with the Magnetic Fields' "I Don't Believe in the Sun" when I notice that Jason has fallen asleep. I continue singing anyway.

8:16 AM: We arrive in the parking lot at Jason's day care. He's still sound asleep, so I settle in to wait for him to wake up on his own—I don't like waking him when I know he's tired. I finished my book yesterday, but fortunately I can still browse the web on my phone. The sun comes out from behind a cloud and it starts to get a little warm in the car—I wish I had thought to open the windows before I turned off the engine, but now I'm afraid the noise will wake Jason up, so I just deal with it and sweat a little.

8:47 AM: Jason wakes up just as I finish my notes for this post, reconstructing the events of the morning.  I take him inside, check him in, and take him to the toddler room. There are three other boys in there already, one of whom is the one that has the same birthday as Jason—I'll call him J. I like all the kids there and have made a point to smile and talk to them when they come over to me, but I've always had an extra warmth toward J. J is walking now, which I hadn't seen before, and I comment on it aloud, also marveling at how much smaller J is than Jason—which is something, because Jason has always been small. The teacher smiles and says that Jason looks like he's getting much taller lately, which I realize is true with some surprise. We talk a bit about toddler shoes, she asks if I've ever been to Japan. She tells me that her son is stationed in Japan and she's thinking about visiting him soon. Our conversation gets interrupted when J takes a book that Jason wanted and, of course, Jason starts crying. The teacher gives him a different book and he calms down pretty quickly. I kiss him goodbye and tell him to be good and have a good day.

8:56 AM: I get back in my car, noting happily that the dog has not drooled on my seats this morning. I scratch him behind the ears and then head to work.

Not every morning goes exactly like this. Sometimes he wakes up earlier, sometimes later—though that's rare these days. Sometimes he's in a better mood, sometimes worse. Sometimes he eats more, sometimes he only wants to play with his food. He doesn't always fall asleep in the car. On the other hand, there's nothing unusual about this morning, either. All in all, it's been a pretty good morning. I do wish he would sleep a little later, but I don't get much time with him in the evenings these days because of work, so this is the time I have with him and I try to make the most of it. And even though he doesn't always cooperate and sometimes makes things really difficult, I make a point of telling him every day how much I love him. "It's a big beautiful world out there, Jason," I tell him when he's cranky. "It's a big beautiful world and it's a great day for you and I to be in it. I love you, buddy."

The other day, a friend of mine commented on Facebook that he hoped his baby daughter liked Raffi's music enough to compensate for his own feelings about it. It's something I could have said myself—in fact, I very well may have.

Music has always been an important part of my life. Indeed, when I think back over my life, so much of it is connected to the music I was listening to at the time. I can barely think of my childhood without thinking about how my brother and I used to rock out in the back seat of our mom's car as she played the New Wave mix tape her friend had given her. Middle school makes me think of the Glen Miller my 6th-grade science teacher played when he was teaching me how to ballroom dance. High school, it's listening to U2's Joshua Tree on the bus ride back from the Desert Trip. I bonded with my grandfather through big band music before he died, indie rock was a big part of what brought my brother and I together after I moved out, and jazz was something I connected with my stepdad over. And, of course, Juliette and I met when we were in a musical together.

I've always wanted my children to be exposed to lots of kinds of music, and especially good music. It's something that Juliette and I have argued about from time to time, what's appropriate for children of different ages to listen to. I do believe that some music isn't right for kids, and that it's the parent's job to figure out what's OK and what's not. But there's so much good music out there that I feel it's stifling to limit your kids to classical and children's music. When I was five years old, I was listening to children's music and bubblegum pop, true, but I was also hearing rock, reggae, New Wave, and even Chilean folk music, and I think I'm the better for it.

I used to think that with so much to choose from, you'd be doing your kid a disservice to play them sugary kid's music. Having had firsthand experience with my own child now, though, I've had to rethink things a bit. Oh, I do still play a variety of music for Jason, but the reality is that he likes children's music. It's simple for a good reason: that's what one-year-olds can follow. Mind you, I still think that a lot of children's music is done by hacks who couldn't cut it singing for adults—and, for some reason, that stuff seems to account for about three-quarters of what's on the cable kid's music channel—but there's good stuff, too. Moreover, the simple tunes that Jason can follow not only get more smiles out of him and hold his attention better, but they really seem to be doing a lot to help his mental development along.

The music snob in me used to fret now and again that my kids might end up not having good taste in music. I'd hear what was playing on the Top 40 radio stations and groan in anticipation of having to listen to the 2020 equivalent of Daughtry or post-Fergie Black-Eyed Peas. And every time, Juliette would tell me to just relax and that I had to let them listen to what they wanted to, that shoving my music down their throats would just end up making them resentful. They'd figure it out on their own, and if they didn't, it wouldn't be the end of the world. And, the thing is, she's right. Because, if I'm being honest, I have to admit that when I was ten, I thought Michael Bolton's Soul Provider was pretty awesome. Looking back, I can remember the pained look my mom would get when I'd ask to pop that tape into her car stereo, but she let me and I seem to have come out OK, so I guess when the time comes, I'll be able to do the same.

(By the way, Mom, I never said thanks for that. So, thanks.)

Yesterday saw another first: Jason's first band-aid. The day had been pretty hot, but our back yard cools down a lot in the afternoon so we were out there playing. I had figured that he didn't need shoes since we'd be playing on the grass, but somehow he managed to break the big toenail on his right foot, which I only noticed because of the blood. Honestly, I think I was more upset about it than he was—he barely noticed until I had him in the sink to wash out the wound. I had to get Juliette to help me put the band-aid on, since by the time I got his foot cleaned and dried he was squirming like crazy to get out of my arms and running around again. And, of course, it only took him a few minutes to pick the band-aid off once I let him go. At least he waited long enough for the bleeding to stop.

I admit, I freaked out a little bit when I saw the blood on his toe. It was silly, since it was such a little wound and, as I said, he wasn't bothered by it at all. Still, the thought of my little guy bleeding just horrified me, and I grabbed him and got him cleaned up as fast as I could.

You can imagine that if I reacted so strongly to what was essentially a stubbed toe, how heavily the prospect of surgery must be weighing on my mind.

But let me back up and explain a bit, because it's not nearly as dire as it sounds. Jason has had a lot of ear infections in the past 9 months. It always goes about the same—he gets a cold with a runny nose, then he gets a fever and starts fussing a lot, then we take him to the doctor, he gets some antibiotics, and a few days later he's feeling fine again. His ears clear up completely in a couple of weeks, which then gives us a few weeks until it starts all over again.

The problem is that chronic ear infections can actually cause real damage to the ear. There can be scarring or even hearing loss, not to mention all the pain and discomfort while his ears are clogged. So, if your child gets more than three ear infections in six months, or more than four in a year, you start getting the talk about tubes. (Jason has had about 8 since December.) It is, from all I've heard and have been able to find out, a pretty easy procedure. The doctor makes a small hole in the eardrums and then puts a little plastic tube into the hole to keep it from closing back up. The idea is to allow fluid behind the ear drum a way to drain so that it doesn't clog up and breed bacteria. The procedure done under general anesthesia, but using a mask instead of intravenous delivery, and the whole thing only takes about fifteen minutes. Eight to fourteen months later, the tube generally works its way out on its own and the eardrum then finishes healing. Of course, there are some risks associated with any surgery, but they are pretty minor and, as the ear-nose-throat specialist we saw put it, "it's less dangerous than being in a car for the same amount of time."

I know all of that. I've taken the time and done my homework, read up and talked to the doctors. I've gotten plenty of advice about the whole thing and have done a lot of thinking about it. I've even seen other children close to Jason's age who have had tubes put in and seen how fine they are. I know that I won't be hurting my son to give the green light to this procedure. It won't even be that big a hassle afterwards, since these days they don't even make you do things like put earplugs in for baths. Despite all that, despite the fact that my rational mind is quite calm about the whole thing, the thought of my son having a mask put over his face by a stranger and being put under and having surgical instruments stuck into his ears, it makes me start to hyperventilate a little. He's so young that he won't be able to understand what's going on or why. I can't help but think that he'll be scared. Thinking about that makes me want to cry.

Even worse is the fact that there isn't really a right answer. Because for right now, the doctor isn't even all that concerned about any damage being done—there's no sign of scarring in his ears and the fact that the fluid clears out between infections means there's less risk. I asked the ear-nose-throat specialist pointblank if there is any danger to not doing it, and he answered "No." So it's just a question of how much pain is it worth it to spare him by doing this procedure. Obviously, if he wouldn't get any more infections, we wouldn't want to do it. And both Juliette and I agreed that if he were going to be getting them every few weeks, it would be worth it. But, of course, there's no real way to know what's going to happen, or what might have happened had we decided the other way.

For now, we've decided to wait and see. We're expecting a call from the ear-nose-throat office this week to schedule the surgery, which would happen in six or eight weeks. If, in that time, he continues to do well, we can cancel or postpone it. We're hoping that's what will happen. If he can make it through the next six weeks without an ear infection, we can push it off another six weeks. And if he gets through that as well, it'll be the longest he's gone without a problem since December, which would likely be a sign that he's outgrown it. Still, we're headed into cold season now, and, as I said, he hasn't lasted six weeks since it all started. All we can do is wait and hope. Which, as Tom Petty once (sort of) said, is the hardest part.

This weekend, Juliette's parents were in town for the restaurant expo and, as so often happens when family visits, we took the opportunity to foist our child on them so we could go out. In the past this has meant that they will stay with him for a few hours while we get a bite to eat or go to a movie, but since Jason has been such a good sleeper lately we thought we'd take the next step and try letting him spend the night with his grandparents in their hotel room.

As I'm sure any parent knows, the first whole night away from your child is a strange one. We had no concerns about leaving Jason with Juliette's parents, of course—they've babysat him enough times now that they know his whole routine. And the thought of being able to have a real grown-up's night out and, even more, to really be able to sleep in the next morning... Well, it's better than ice cream, let me just say that. Still, as nice as it is to be able to have a leisurely dinner at a nice restaurant, to not have to eat as quickly as possible in order to finish before Jason gets too rambunctious, after over a year of thinking about him constantly, his absence is so conspicuous when he's not there.

Friday night, we had a lovely—if somewhat pricey—meal at a local restaurant that a couple of friends recommended to us. We had some cocktails to start, lingered over dinner, and even ordered dessert. It was after ten by the time we got home. (Let me repeat that: AFTER TEN. The boy's bedtime is 7:30!)

The next morning, of course, we both woke up at 5:30. And then again at 6. And 6:30. And 7. After spending the past year waking up just before or after dawn to the sound of a baby crying, our bodies are just too much on alert to let us really relax. We made ourselves go back to sleep, though, and didn't get out of bed until about 8:30. It was glorious. So strange how your perspective changes. Ten years ago, making a 9:00 class was torture. Even two years ago, getting up at 8 to be at work by 9 was tough sometimes. But when I say 8:30 these days is glorious, oh, how I mean it. Waking up because I'm ready, taking the time to fully come awake before getting out of bed instead of stumbling down the hall with my eyes half-closed to splash some milk in a sippy cup—I tell you, I can just about see what people see in mornings.

The best part is that Jason had a great time with his grandparents and slept well. So, of course, when they offered to take him for a second night, we accepted. Glorious.

Jason is in the process of moving from the infant group to the toddler group at his day care, and it's been kind of a rough transition. Starting last week, he's been spending most of his time in the toddler room, which means he's officially done with bottles (they're not allowed in the toddler room) and he's also down to one nap a day. On top of that, he seems to be going through some kind of growth spurt, since he is more or less constantly eating. Today he ate two-thirds of a banana, a plum, and two handfuls of cereal for breakfast, and for lunch and snacks he had cereal, Ritz crackers, Spanish rice, a bunch of orange slices, saltines (twice), and a quesadilla, and I'm sure he had a big dinner as well. He also pooped five times. The kid is like a pooping machine all of a sudden.

Anyway, as I was saying, all of this change has put him in a rather bad mood. His teachers have reported that he cries whenever he sees someone else getting a bottle, and that he's been fussy and tired. He's also apparently figured out where they keep the food in his classroom, and will stand there and point and whine until he gets it. All of which is more or less in line with what he's been like at home. He's been very demanding with us, wanting everything and wanting it now, and flopping around on the floor throwing a tantrum when he doesn't get it.

Juliette and I have been, understandably, pretty frustrated and tired ourselves. It's amazing how exhausting a kid can be. Still, there's been nothing we can really do but try to push through, and we've also been taking the opportunity to start setting boundaries for Jason and working on communicating with him. We've also pushed his bedtime about 20 minutes earlier in an attempt to make sure he's getting enough sleep. Nonetheless, we've fretted a lot about him being unhappy, and also about him becoming "that kid." He's always been such a sweet boy and he's seemed to be a favorite of a bunch of the teachers at his day care, which has always been inordinately gratifying to me. I want him to always be so sweet.

He seems to have turned a corner over the last couple of days, though, as he woke up in a good mood that lasted the whole morning. He was very smiley while he ate his breakfast, almost none of which ended up on the floor. (And what did end up on the floor was accidental instead of as a "THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR THWARTING ME!" demonstration.) He didn't fall asleep on the car rides to or from school, either, and his teachers reported that he had a very good day. Hopefully this is the start of a new trend, one that works better for all three of us.

As a final note, I was planning to write this yesterday but for once my slacking off has turned out well, because I really like to be able to close with a happy ending.

Dear Jason,

Today you turn one year old. You don't know what birthdays mean yet, but your mother and I are both amazed that it's already been a whole year since we met you. In some ways it feels like you've been here our whole lives, in others it still feels like you're brand new. Except, you're already so different from that first day. I remember how calm you were at first, just looking around, taking it all in. You squeezed back when I held your hand the first time. I held you a lot—you fit in one hand pretty easily on that first day.

Your hands are a lot bigger now. You're a lot bigger. And you smile and laugh and shake your head "no" and wave "hi" and run around and make me and your mom chase you all over the house. You're quite a charmer. You love people. You had your first birthday party a couple of days ago and you had a great time. And everybody else had a great time, too, watching you run and play and yell. I made everybody record a little birthday greeting for you—one of these days you'll watch it and think "Man, he really didn't mind making people embarrass themselves, did he?" (I didn't. I'd do it again for you, buddy.)

Everybody kept telling me how beautiful you are. I obviously think you're the most beautiful baby I've ever seen, but I used to wonder whether it was just parental bias, and maybe everybody was just saying it because that's what you say to new parents. But people keep saying things like "I know everybody always says 'Your baby is so cute' but, seriously, your baby is just gorgeous, I mean that." And total strangers will stop us in airports and malls to tell us. In fact, that happened just the day before yesterday when we were at the Obon Festival in Salinas—some lady I'd never seen before came over to tell us that you were just so beautiful that it gave her chills. Which, actually, I thought was kind of a weird thing to say, but it does go to show what effect you have on people. And you were looking extra cute, wearing the jinbei that your Uncle Ben brought back from Japan last summer.

I still can't believe how much you're learning and growing. Like when your Auntie gave you the toy phone for your birthday, you put it to your ear and said "Hi." You were holding it upside down and backwards, but still, how'd you learn that? It doesn't even look like my or your mom's phone. It seems like all of a sudden you're doing all kinds of things like that.

What do I want to say to you on your birthday? It's so hard to sum up what I'm feeling in just a few words. Mainly, just that I'm so happy to know you. You've been such a joy, and knowing you and watching you grow has taught me so much. I hope that being near you will help me be more like you, because you're charming and social and active and absolutely fearless. And so inquisitive—you want to see everything and touch everything. And put everything in your mouth. (I could probably skip that last part.) And watching you have that curiosity reminds me of that same feeling in myself, that I used to have when I was a child. Everybody talks about "the wonder of a child" and how being a parent brings it back to you. It's true in ways I didn't realize just hearing it. These are the things you do for me.

Today you're going to go swimming with some of your friends, and on Saturday you're going to have a second party with all of your San Diego friends. I hope that your first birthday is lots of fun for you, and that the next year and all your life bring you health, wisdom, and happiness. I love you, buddy.