There is one final skill I have yet to master: that of dividing my brain into two simultaneously functioning parts.

In conversation, my ears hear just enough to know I’m not quite catching the jist, while my face works hard at Looking Attentive. But meanwhile, the rest of my brain (aside from the small portion that operates my ears and face) is occupied with whatever my son is about to put into his mouth.

We’re an hour late with his lunch. He’s going to hit the wall any second. Wait – what’s that in his hand? Oh no, he’s about to put his face in the dog’s dish.

“No kidding! That’s so great. So what’s next for you?”

We have to get home fast. He’s going to freak when we put him in the carseat. Damn, I forgot to wash his sleeping bag. What’s he going to nap in? I wonder if he'll konk out on the way home. Oh look, he loves going up those stairs. He’s getting so strong.

“I know, I totally feel the same way. We noticed the same thing last week.”

We need to pick up some more Burt's Bees. He's all crotchy.

It’s not lack of interest. Just lack of focus. When it comes to mental multitasking, anyone other than Evan is left with the scraps from his table.

"Is it just me,” I asked Justin yesterday, “Or is everyone else suddenly from another planet?" "It’s just you," he replied. "It's both of us. Weird, isn't it?"

We're not used to being perpetually misunderstood. I see them – kidless folk – watching us with condescending pity. We take turns trailing along behind Evan on the floor, spotting him as he scurries and climbs and skidaddles, anticipating every obstacle and temptation in his path. We never sit down. We leave early, before the appetizers even come out.

How unappealing, they must think. Their lives have become so small, so confined. They can’t relax. They’re so scattered. They have to plan their day around his naps. Imagine! They can’t even carry on a normal conversation. I know that’s how I felt before Evan, seeing new parents. Thank God that’s not us! And we’d skip away, giddy with our fortunes and freedom.

Happy eleven-month birthday, kiddo. All the clichés are true: you, because you’re ours, are endlessly fascinating. We don't miss living on a whim. We had no idea you would be so much fun. The rest of the world is right: we are consumed by you. But happily, so happily.