My excuse for not attending class on Saturday, April 7

Apologies, Aiden deserves better press.
No full-face shot has surfaced that doesn't include a pacifier or inappropriate parts of anatomy. By the way, this may not be a definition but it certainly is an illustration of joy. Also, Mary didn't think about what he'd be like as an old man, but she did say she thought about what he'll look like in three years, in overalls asking for a cookie.

An example of Definition?

Cooking up “architectonics”
THE HIGHFALUTIN’ TERM for “the form and the shape of the thing” in nonfiction writing is architectonics, which Norman Simms, in his anthology The Literary Journalists, defines as “the structural design that gives order, balance and unity to a work, the element of form that relates the parts to each other and to the whole.”
Jon Franklin, the first writer to win the Pulitzer Prize for feature writing, likens the architectonic part for the writing process to getting ready to climb a mountain. “Structuring is the art of planning and analysis, of hiring Sherpas, accumulating equipment and buying tickets,” he says in Writing for Story. “It is the antithesis of dream, as unartful as anything the writer does. Yet it is absolutely necessary to his survival.”
Another Pulitzer Prize winner, Richard Rhodes, has observed, in The Literary Journalists, “The kind of architectonic structures that you have to build, that nobody ever teaches or talks about, are crucial to writing and have little to do with verbal abilities. They have to do with pattern ability and administrative abilities—generalship, if you will. Writers don’t talk about it much, unfortunately.”
Seeing, sorting, seeking threads—these are the skills that architectonics demands. In building structures, the nonfiction writer must both separate his materials and find commonalities among seemingly disparate elements.
Though comparisons to architecture and even military strategy are more colorful, it’s maybe easiest to understand architectonics by thing of cooking. I like to cook, particularly spicy Cajun dishes that flirt with inedibility, and I think cooking appeals to me in part because it’s like writing. First you assemble the ingredients—onion, chicken breasts, and so on—just as when you write an article you must first gather all your research. But you wouldn’t just dump all the onions or all the chicken you’ve got in the kitchen into your pot any more than you’d put every quote in your notebook into an article. No, the cooking begins with selection: so much onion, this many chicken breasts, just enough cayenne pepper. And you don’t add all the ingredients to the stew all at once. In making a good gumbo, for example, there’s an order to every ingredient: Some of the onions go into the hot, penny-colored roux right away; others are added later, to preserve more of their individual onion identity. Finally, there’s a certain style in how the dish is served. You don’t just holler “Come and get it!” and slop the stuff into the first dish, bowl or coffee mug that’s at hand. With gumbo, you mound a cupful of rice and then carefully ladle the stew on top and all around. With an article, you try to serve up a pleasing presentation that will entice the reader to take that all-important first bite.
Sounds delicious, you’re probably saying, but what’s it have to do with structure? Seems as though by the time it’s served, the onions and chicken and such are all just gumbo, and the diner seeking structure would have about as much luck as hunting polar bear in a bayou. That’s the point precisely, of course: to blend the ingredients so skillfully into a larger whole that collectively they become something more delectable than a teaspoon of this or a cup of that. You don’t want the reader to see the structure any more than the chef wants the diner back in his kitchen. The process is organized and highly disciplined; the product is pure gumbo.

Fryxell, David A. Structure and Flow. Cincinnati, Ohio:
Writer’s Digest Books, 1996. 6-7.