'Japanese boy legs'. 'Humongous breasts'. 'Sexy kitty messy face'. 'Midget mud-wrestling'. And, the recent landslide winner: 'men in rubber boots'. They find me by some random, perfect storm of words (or not so random), click with breathless anticipation and then… GACK! Un blog fricking de la mama! ¡Lo único que deseo es acción muy pequeña caliente! *##%^@*$&!!  …and click away inside of zero seconds.

But lately, the worldwide fetish community devoted to men in rubber boots has exploded. I can’t figure it out. From Peru. Japan. Spain. All over the States. Upwards of ten a day land on the same picture from an image search. They land and leave: that’s fine. But a few of them STAY. They click on the one hot man category and devour post after post, rapt with Justin’s potent straightness.

While I can’t blame you, I have to admit that you give me the queebs. Thanks to the big brother that is StatCounter, I see you. I’m keeping track of you so that if you start lurking, I’ll know where you came from. My hands are tied but my eyes are open. Last night, ‘Pervy Rubber Boot Googler #4’ from Milwaukee went through 27 posts. And returned this morning for 6 more.

Here’s what I hope: you’re a young wife just married into a family-run footwear factory, and you were online searching for new and innovative rubber boot designs. You saw Justin’s picture and thought, “Hmm! There’s an interesting variety of hosta in that yard. I enjoy gardening. <click>… hey! Fancy that, a mommy blog! I’m about to become a mommy, and I’m feeling very skittish about it. I wonder what this mommy has to say?”

To all my sisters-in-skittishness known and unknown, I extend a hearty welcome.

But you could also be a pantless, pervy nutcase who drives a windowless cube van airbrushed with frolicking unicorns and who’s become obsessed with my husband and figured out WHO WE ARE and WHERE WE LIVE and has decided to camp out in our blackberry bushes like so many Tom Cruise fans and lost-sheep scientologists. Except we don’t have bodyguards and electrified fencing.

YOU. You creep me out. Please go away… unless you’re a mama or papa in search of solidarity (by way of… uuhhh… rubber boots). If that's the case, I’m thrilled to see you. I’ll make you a pot of tea and sit you down and feed you my pumpkin spice cookies and let you take a warm bath in familiar anxieties and you’ll feel restored and laugh a little and know that everything is going to be okay.

But here’s what makes me figure that Milwaukee Pervy Rubber Boot Googler #4 justifies his newly christened IP label. It's two things: first, women are more likely to focus their pervy googling on somewhat less obscure targets (Viggo. James Alexander Malcom MacKenzie Fraser. Those oozing chocolate lava cakes baked in tiny ramekins.) And second, the reaction we used to get in the west end of Vancouver. You’ve seen the ads in the classifieds section of the Georgia Strait: Man Seeking Straight-Looking Man.

Walking down Davie Street, oblivious, Justin would cause a seventeen-car pileup. Painters would tumble off their ladders through sheets of plate glass. Entire barbershop quartets would wander into speeding traffic, dazed. It was pandemonium. The faded levi’s, the hiking boots, the plaid shirt, and, even sometimes, for those with reeeeally fortunate timing, the thick, luscious beard. He was so straight he glowed like Rudolph in thick fog. I mean, look at this: he WASN’T POSING. And for the love of Cher, you all dig it.

Please accept my sincere apologies, residents of the Davie Street area, for the lingering stiffness <ahem> ...from the whiplash my husband caused with his presence on your street. Heck, it always made me proud, to have him on my arm. I snapped a few z’s, I must confess. I worked it, girl!

Shout out to Milwaukee. Are you a pervy nutcase? Or are you a harmless fellow breeder in need of a virtual pot of tea and spice cookies and steaming shared-anxiety bath? I’d like to know.

For the record, I’ve got nothing against pervs. Some of my best friends are pervs. And anyway, it’s not the mere man-seeking-man bit that’s pervy (I’ve known men-seeking-men who are practically more wholesome than me).

It’s the sitting-at-your-computer-in-Milwaukee-without-pants-on-making-your-keyboard-all-sticky thing.

I’m off to take a scalding shower. And so is my laptop.

Oh, greeeeat. Now I’ll attract all kinds of human-showering-with-machine fetishists. <sigh>

Some people make parenting look easy. They wear it well, soothing and diffusing with grace, patience and minimal fuss. To those of us contemplating father or motherhood, these people are mentors. We all want to be them.

Others, however, make parenthood look positively undesireable. It’s those unfortunate folks you watch you for a moment and think, Woah. What a mess. This is the camp I belonged to today.

Evan and I ventured out on a Reel Babies date, where they open a movie theatre in the middle of the day for moms and dads with babies in tow. The lights are on, and you’re free to do as you please – walk around, jiggle, bounce and play to the cacophony of several dozen babies yelling, giggling, crying and feeding all at the same time. If you’re lucky, you might get to actually watch the movie as well.

It was fate, you see. Before the movie started, the mother in front of me asked, “How has he been for you?”

“Great,” I said. “He’s been really calm. He’s a pretty happy kid.”

On cue, Evan shot her his very best ear-to-ear grin, stuck out his tongue and said “Owwwaa!” It doesn’t get any more adorable than a happy baby performing on cue, especially post-boast.

We left the theatre not even halfway through the movie, utterly defeated.

He went from fidgety to bored to uncomfortable to pissed off to turning himself inside out. Insert a poop-a-lanche in the middle, too. The kind that ends up everywhere.

We got outside and heaved our circus act into the truck, both of us sweaty, exhausted and grateful to be away from explosions and bad one-liners. He sighed, smiled and goo-ed softly from his carseat as if to say, Thanks mom. I feel better now.

I can’t resist saying it: it was a ‘shitty’ movie anyway.

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.