You see them, right? The signs on every minivan you pass: FREE PERSONALITY TEST! .. and you’re tempted. It’s only a harmless little quiz, right? And you’ve got a few spare minutes.

(This will be the dawn of your enlightenment.)

I’m happy to report that less than a week and just one grocery trip post-purchase, Justin and I have both earned Operating Thetan status in the cult of the minivan, and are now on a passionate crusade to welcome reformed apostates into the church’s embrace.

We know you’re out there. Folding one and all into sleek sedans and sporty wagons and chunky-cool SUVs, masters of the arts of denial and child-origami. Despite the telltale diaper stash, doorframe-knocking noggins and body contortioning midget-wrestling episodes, the presence of children is almost totally negated by the mountain bike racks. Admirably resistant you are, clinging to your hipness like the captain of the winning team panting in a post-game interview: I guess we just wanted it more than the other guys.

We know you because we were you. In its infinite wisdom, the church fast-tracked our Thetan levels due to our former membership and ease of infiltration among the That-Will-Never-Be-Us transportational collective (closely associated, not coincidentally, with the We-Would-Never-Have-Three-Kids life planning collective). Following is our crusade directive, as granted by the cult higher power:

• Those with ONE child = minivan not quantifiably necessary (distant target)
• Those with TWO children = minivan exponentially more necessary, excessively luxurious (denial stage: requires heavy indoctrination)
• Those with THREE+ children = minivan unquestionably necessary (therapy stage: assist in the assimilation of reluctant converts)

If you are not happy in life, we can help you find out why. Or, if you *think* you are happy in life, we can help you find out that you, in fact, are not. Not until you too open the door to your vehicle WITH A BUTTON. The World Dominatory Church of The Minivan extends this warm invitation to you. Resistance is futile.

It’s done. We’ve always been impulsive that way — once we know a task is at hand, we don’t tend to agonize.

We traded the Jetta for the first one we looked at: a newish Mazda MPV with low mileage and remotely self-opening doors. The burgeoning love affair between myself and these doors betrays just how fitting this vehicle is, despite our best intentions to compromise everything *but* our funk for our family life.

(Naturally, every last one of our 'best intentions' predate the news of one plus twins. And each is doomed to a similar fate: a dedicated twinkies cupboard for bribes, mandatory soothers until at least grade seven, a front yard littered with overturned plastic Fun Karts, hot pockets and cheez whiz for breakfast, 24x7 Barney... aesthetics and principles be damned. If it works, it gets a green light from here on in.)

In fact, I watched our last remaining shred of funk in the rearview mirror this morning, thumb out on the side of the highway, a red-and-white checkered tie bag over its shoulder.

Likely thinking to itself, Gawd! About time. I still can’t believe I stuck around after the mother let the kid blow his nose on the hem of her shirt. But this? A MINIVAN? That’s it, man. I’m outta here.

Now, all that’s left is the high-waisted jeans, the acrylic reindeer sweaters at Christmas and the bright-white orthopedic sneakers.

And the production crew of TLC’s Ten Years Younger who will surprise me as I sit crocheting in my rec room, then bring me to the 360-degree mirror and pat my hand earnestly as they say, “Kate, why do you think 75% of people surveyed thought you were a Pentecostal retiree?”

And I’ll say, trembling in my pleated trousers, “Well, it all started three years ago when we bought our first minivan…”

At the Wendy’s in Truro, on the way to Shediac for the long weekend: the first time I have ever simultaneously felt both offense and solidarity.

Our table-neighbour appraised us with some degree of affinity, smiling in our direction in the way some people do. Wanting to let us know with sheer enthusiasm that we’re welcome in public, despite the disturbance of peace and the mess we leave behind.

Evan was artfully war-painted in smears of chili, beaming kidney bean-squashed grins at every female who passed and shrieking every time he managed to crush a soda cracker in the palm of his hand. We’re used to it now, the wide berth granted to us by other diners. One look at the floor under his highchair and they know well enough to stay just outside of firing range.

No matter how well we think we're holding it together, we're a rabble of bumbling, staggering half-wits to the outside world. Accompanied by that circus ditty the band plays when the juggling clowns pedal into the big top on unicycles wearing gigantic red shoes.

“Doesn’t that make you want one of your own?” our neighbour piped cheerfully to her companion.

“Ugh,” the companion sniffed, loudly. “Makes me not want to ever have one.”

Part of me wanted to grab her whale’s tail from out back of her pants and yank it up over her head. How could she possibly look upon my sweet, miraculous boy and be anything other than charmed to the core? But then, what struck me as funny: she was me, two years ago. All except for the butt cleavage.

I looked at him as she must have, as I did on all kids: smelly, inconvenient, embarrassing and cumbersome. Compounded by the fact that his newfound toddlerhood has a way of getting on my nerves… a constant battle of wills in which my opponent keeps putting on advantageous weight and strength.

The upside simply doesn’t make sense: I’m most proud of him when he’s filthy. It’s the sign of a day well-lived. And I’m proud of myself at the end of a truly god-forsaken episode, when he gets poop on my clothes and sand in his crack and chews on my hair and pinches the skin on my neck and uses his head as a morning wake-up battering ram.

Being proven capable – not perfect, but capable – is a more gratifying rush than the satisfaction you get from being childless and free.

I'm starting to truly believe it.

Pre-child vow #42: My child will not watch television. We will play, use our imaginations and read books. There will be a zero-tolerance policy for willful brain rot, open-mouth-breathing and ADD cultivation.

(Note to reader: pre-child vow #41 was “I will not throw up during labour”, and #43 was “there will be no plastic in my house”.)

Given the track record to date, it should come as no surprise that Evan giggles every time Mr. Toppemhat comes on screen. He is enraptured, watching in awe as Thomas and His Friends clack along the tracks of Sodor Island, delivering ice cream to the beach and children to the fair.

And I get breakfast, a contented ten minutes to drink tea and poach eggs.

Then it’s back to living room laps, crudnut-swallowing and cat-tormenting, chicken soup for the toddler's soul.

Is it so bad? We all watched it. The Muppet Show, Carol Burnett, Hercules at lunchtime. But thanks to legions of unchecked children and lazy parents, television is a pariah. The lowest common denominators – parents who warm the house with broadcast glow, hours per day – have caused TV to be proclaimed evil for all.

Letting your child watch must be like choosing formula over breast. You feel compelled to justify your choice to not swim against the tide of trailer park parenting.

My child eats gnocchi with parmesan, you want to say. I’m not one of Them. It’s not like I’d sit him in front of ‘Barney’ with a bag of cheez-its and a can of coke.

He stands in his playpen, transfixed, and shame takes root in the pit of my stomach. But then he squeals happily, just in time for singalong. My tea is getting cold, and the bagel just popped. Five minutes. Maybe seven, tops.

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.

The fourteen-year-old in me is rolling her eyes.

It’s because I realize, without a doubt, that I will tell my children I can’t sleep until I know you’re home! Why? Just because! Someday you’ll have your own, and you’ll understand!

Kids can’t possibly perceive how much parents have invested in them. How much tumult and mess and uproar and energy, and love – the most criminally overused, diluted word in all of history. I use it to express my passion for Irish cheese. It’s not sufficient anymore in regards to my son.

I knew this when I first saw two purple, slimy legs kicking like mad in an operating room, protesting examination amid cold plastic and bright lights.

I’ll go to the end of the earth for you.

I love the way he twiddles his belly button when he thinks we’re not looking.

I love how he joyously faceplants into a pile of cheerios and comes up with most of them stuck to his cheeks.

I love his droopy drawers.

I love the four seconds that immediately follow a tumble, during which time stands still. That flash of a moment in which his brain contemplates one of two responses: to wail in shock; or to shrug, grin and press on.

When we’re exasperated with each other, I put him in his crib to exhaust himself and come to his senses. And... is this normal? His yelling, the force of his determination - it cracks me up.

It fills me with some strange, nervous energy, gives me the giggles. Which he doesn't appreciate. So he empties his lungs, clears the air. Then he settles to the business at hand (emptying me) and we cuddle each other to sleep.

Some sounds in life make you want to run away as fast as you can to shelter and safety. Air raid sirens. Packs of snarling, rabid rottweilers. Large explosions. Top 40 radio. And for me, belly bulging, due date approaching – babies.

Aside from anticipating labour pain, cracked nipples, non-sleeping zombiedom and having no more fun at least until retirement, one of my biggest pregnancy concerns was how repulsed I was to the sound of crying.

How could I possibly be a good mother, I wondered, when the presence of babies made me break out in hives? Could I build a soundproof box with breathing holes and a swinging door for food and water?

And more importantly, should it be for me or the kid?

Every time I was faced with one of those noisy, squished up little creatures, I would force a grin onto my face and exclaim, “Oh, how adorable!”, hoping I looked genuine. I was even one of those nasty childless people that would give dirty looks to infants on planes. I have no escape! How dare you? Do you realize I am going to have nightmares for two weeks because of you?

Life is different now. Sometimes, when Evan really works himself into a lather, I hold on to him for a moment to watch him yell. There’s something about it that is the essence of life, strength and health. Go, kid, go!

The quick intake of breath, the quivering chin and downcast lower lip of the pre-emptive pout, the squinted-up eyes, the glorious 'Whaaa!'. It’s a whole new language. Like the thousand different words Inuit people have for snow, there is no single cry.

There is the I’m Bored cry, the I’m Not Awake Yet But When I Am, I Am Going To Be Really Pissed Off cry, the I Can Smell That Milky Lady And I Know She’s Multi-Tasking And Making Me Wait cry, the How Dare You Laugh At Me cry, the Teething Sucks And I Don’t Care What You Say About Corn On The Cob cry.

And my all-time favourite: the I Need My Mommy cry. It fills me up with all things good. And no all-over body rash in sight.

Toots, our most dear, most divine cat, used to make admirable attempts to curl up atop my giant, pregnant belly. I wondered if she could feel the shifts and bumps from its occupant – and if the occupant thought it was mommy that was purring.

Everyone warned us: post-baby life is not reconcilable with cat-loving life. Pets of all statures, ages and species will instantly drive you to drink. You just won’t have time for them, they told us. It will be one more hassle that you would rather do without.

Inconcievable, I thought. Impossible. It will never happen.

She knows when I’m trapped under the baby, and choses those moments to shred the couch, barf on the carpet, chew leather, eat plastic and swipe any breakable in paw’s reach with a glorious smash to the floor. And we actually used to think all of the above was cute.

And, as she helpfully pointed out to me just now, she has been a Most Excellent Big Sister since she has decided not to eat Evan for breakfast after all.

July 28, 2003

Whenever I become a parent, I’m going to avoid tacky, plastic baby crap no matter what.

I’d rather have a wooden high chair, stepstools, laundry baskets, little tables and chairs. If the item has a permanent role in a room (i.e. not kept 95% of the time in the corner or a closet), it has to blend. An old wooden rocking chair instead of an upholstered slide rocker that looks like it belongs in a seniors’ citizens complex, circa 1982.

I don’t want a house that looks like it’s been furnished by Graco. Maybe a few key items like a play pen or jolly jumper.. but beyond that, everything else has to add to a room, not take away from it. Modern stuff might be easier or better designed, but I grew up with wood and it was fine.

I’m determined to sacrifice marginally improved ease for vastly improved pride.

Moooo-ha ha ha ha! Welcome to the new reality! If it gives me fifteen minutes to eat breakfast, it’s a keeper! After all, doesn’t everyone need musical inspiration for their belltower rampages?