Whitman boys.

Not only can The Gus say “light,” he can walk. Can I get a witness?

A wee touch of bronchitis. And fever. I just The Gus doesn’t get it too or we would not have spectacular photo shoots like last night. No more comment: this is just one super photogenic kid. My bias shows.

His eyes really are that blue:

Except when they’re shut:

He already sings in the car. It is a short step to infant karaoke:

Now we eat the duck:

Gleefully demented, or dementedly gleeful:

More gleefully demented glee:

If you are thinking that all Whitman boys have asymmetrical faces, you are right, yea, nigh unto the last generation:

So, I want to sleep but the baby, who is theoretically “napping,” is in his crib, wide awake, blathering on about this and that. He sleeps in our room, and if he is not out cold when I come into the room, he will spring to his feet, start chewing on the rail of the crib, and demnd to be released from his well-mattressed prison.

Nothing to do, then, but blog. Indian summer has apparently finally drawn down here in the Northwest, with foul spitting rain today. The good news? I can start brewing lagers, as we have a cold room in our basement that will accommodate the lower fermenting temperatures. But that is for a couple of weekends from now.

There are, of course, season-appropriate photo ops.

Here, The Gus appreciates a small pumpkin. Note the look of demented wonder.

Here, he appreciates a large pumpkin. His joy is commensurately greater.

It has started raining. What to do but put the baby in a snowsuit? And of course, he cannot function in this getup at all. But he reminds me of the M*A*S*H episode whre Maj. Charles Emerson Winchester III gets a down-filled polar suit in the mail from his rich family, while the rest of the 4077th freezes.

Here, he looks like he is caught in the act. But the act of what? Holding on to the rocking chair?

And here, he anticipates imminent punishment. Not that he’s ever been punished.

I love this picture. Vaccant and toothy, that’s my boy.