I don't want to overdo the doting father thing (does anybody really care what color Peter's spitup was today?), but so far, seven weeks into this whole fatherhood gig, one of my favorite things to do is the bath ritual. He was a real kick during it last night, all wiggly and alert like a startled pink raisin, and barely let out a single squawk. The fragility of the lad becomes apparent when you're trying to keep him safe in an inch of lukewarm water and he's more slippery than a greased hog. But it's worth it when you get pics like this at the end.