General Demeanor

There are a number of things you could do to Miles to get him to smile. You could look at him; you could breathe; you could pick him up; you could put him down; you could change his diaper; you could not change his diaper. All of this would be fine with Miles and he'd say, "Grrriiinnn."

This is a disturbingly agreeable baby. If this baby were a guard dog, he'd be the guard dog that wags his tail at the dudes as they cart off Dad's spacebar-less computer and his dusty collection of MD players.

He's the kind of baby that--as much as any second baby tells you that you really don't need a third baby--makes you think, "Mmmmmm. . . perhaps another cute, possibly female one, wouldn't be so bad. We could do it!"

Then, you look down and realize you're driving to work in a state of sleep-deprived pantlessness, and realize: two babies is plenty.