He climbs up on that railing every time I pick him up from preschool. Usually I just tell him "no climbing," and we continue toward the car. What I don't say—and what he probably won't understand for a long time, if ever—is that I still want to climb on things sometimes, too.

Jason may be a little overzealous when it comes to getting the water out of his eyes.

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.

On this side of the canyon the pavement is cracked and some of the yards are overgrown. The roofs aren't all the same color, though; I kind of like that.

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.

You never know when or where he may be, but believe this: Taylor Lautner is watching you.

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.

Last year at his dance recital, Jason kind of froze up. I don't know if it was the lights or the crowd noises, but he looked a little like a deer in the headlights. At the very end, though, he did his somersault at just the right time, and the crowded erupted at the cuteness. I felt like my chest might burst, so much was I swelling with pride and love.

This year there was also a boy in the dance who froze up, but it wasn't Jason. He looked confident and like he was having a lot of fun. And, as you can see, both cool and adorable.

How is it possible to feel so much joy, so much love for a person? I don't know, but I do.

The first time through, he got stuck and shouted for my help. I gave it, and he continued on.

The second time through I was there waiting for him, and reached out to give him a leg up before he could get upset. I followed beside him the next few times, ready to push or pull as soon as he asked.

But before long, he had figured out how to climb over that steep spot on his own, and thereafter he didn't need me anymore.

But then he turned and beckoned me to follow him in. "Daddy, come on!" he shouted. "I want you!"

It's nice to be wanted.

From our trip to visit my mom and stepdad, back in April. I can't remember if it was supposed to be a fort or a bed or some sort of nest. I do remember the joy in Jason's voice when he told me about it, and the swell in my chest at seeing my stepfather and my son enjoy each others' company.