Juliette asked me tonight how I was feeling. Honestly, I'm starting to feel like I'm floating again. I've reached a plateau with my photography where I'm not advancing commercially or artistically.  My portrait bookings are sporadic, and while my clients have universally been happy with the photographs I make with them, I don't feel like I'm making much progress, if any, toward a self-sustaining life in photography. Nor do I have the time to dedicate toward building that business.

On the other hand, while I'm proud of how far I've come artistically with my personal work, I have very few outlets for that work and essentially no useful criticism. I've gotten a few photos into some curated groups on Flickr, but even though that was and is exciting, there's nothing there for me to build on, and no real feedback as to what's working and what's not, whether my rejects have shown potential or are just crap. The few critiques I've solicited have been generally positive—some overwhelmingly so—but while that's a nice ego boost it does nothing to help me grow as an artist.

And so, I feel adrift, directionless. I don't have the time or resources to pursue further training, and I don't have much in the way of an artistic community to bounce ideas off of and to give me feedback and criticism. I'm just continuing to do what I've been doing, but it feels more like I'm treading water than making any kind of forward progress.

I'm not really sure where to go from here, except that I know I don't want to give up. I know that when I look at pictures like the one above, it makes me happy—happy because of the moment in the picture and happy because I was able to make that image. That ought to be enough, but for whatever reason, it's not. So I suppose until I figure things out, there's nothing to do except take Dory's advice: just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.

"OK, which toy do you want, Jason."

"Ummmmm, I want the girl ducky."

"This one?"

"Yeah, that one."

"You know, you used to call this one the Jason ducky."

"That's not a Jason, that's a girl."

"Why do you think it's a girl?"

"Because it's a girl ducky."

"What makes it look like a girl?"

"See that? That's the make-up."

"You mean the little eyelashes? OK."

"Yeah, those eyelashes are called make-up. My eyelashes don't have that."

"I guess not."

"You know what mine are called? Mine are called merner."

"Merner? That's not a word, Jason."

"Sounds like a word to me."

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.