Whitman boys.

The Gus smiles now. More at people than at the wall, or pretty light fixtures. He is rapidly transforming himself from a tiny daft dependent larva with no discernable personality into a larger daft dependent baby with preferences, and as we all know personality is just the sum of one’s preferences.

We were musing to acquaintances this evening just how lucky we are. Not only is The Gus the handsomest of infants, he is a remarkably easy baby to live with. He eats well, sleeps well, poops well, and doesn’t cry inconsolably. This combination makes me inclined to not press our luck by going for another, but T doesn’t mind the steep odds that we will do as well and wants to keep our options open. I’m just risk-averse, I guess.

Anyway, you’re here for pictures of him. Without further ado:

Oh, wait. He is.

Joan Didion’s essay in the Times about the death of her husband, John Gregory Dunne. I have never been a Ddion fan, but here writing here is luminous. I can read it only in short chunks because it leaves me feeling hollowed-out. But the test of love is in its loss.