Since he was too young even for outfits I’ve dressed him up, my doll. Propped him, snapped fingers, yodeled—all to preserve him just as he is at that moment, the current version of himself always on the edge of obsolescence, the six-month old giving way for the nine-month old, the younger never to be seen again, and so on.

He hears the click and sighs. “No pictures. I am BUSY.”

I’ve resorted to chocolate chip bribery, but already he is too cool for me.

And as fate would have it, this photographic reluctance is just as his eyes sparkle with the mystery of his own opinion on things, with the wonder of his own senses of humour, injustice, adventure.

Just the very sparkle I’m after.

Dang.