This is not a story about how spring has finally arrived in Nova Scotia, where flowers are starting to poke out of the ground, the crows are up to no good and many Haligonians are guilty of premature flip-flopping. This is a story about poop.

Before going to the Stuart McLean show at Convocation Hall in Wolfville (which was excellent, just as I had imagined it would be), we met with my parents at a tiny restaurant called the Ivy Deck for a quick supper.

We had been on ‘poop watch’ for four days. None in sight, that is. Very unusual. Just as our food arrived, Evan, on Justin’s lap, started showing textbook signs. Hooray! We thought. Suspicious rumbling. Mysterious squirming. The telltale red-face and accompanying grimace. Only parents can understand the collective relief these signs bring.

Thirty seconds later, Justin was weaving his way between the tables, holding Evan at arm’s length like a live bomb.

Evan: “HHrrrrngh! UUnnnnnhggh!”
Kate: “Oh! It’s dripping on your shoe! And your pants! And your..”
Justin: “Wha..?”
Evan: “Huuurrrgggh!”
Justin: “Grab the diaper bag! It’s gonna blow!”

I think that’s why babies are born cute. So that despite making the most ridiculous, public messes – of themselves and their parents – they are still admired wherever they go. Except on airplanes, of course. And in places people want peace and quiet. And when people are trying to eat… err… ahem.