When we go there, I can sit on my a** without guilt. The giant sandbox. The beach. Within minutes of where we live, there are a dozen more of them than there are playgrounds — most often deserted and easily a dozen times better.

That’s why you're seeing the same scene played out on Flickr again. And again. And again. It’s what we do. We go to the beach with a picnic and we pile sticks, collect shells and pop dried-up seaweed.

And sometimes we just sit. I Sit, he declares, plopping himself next to me in solidarity. It’s like he knows I haven’t got it in me to run circles with him, and he’s forgiving me for it. It’s okay mama, I just sit. We sit together and we watch the lobster boats, and I dig, and you tell me about whales and pirates and treasure.

After a bleak winter the sky is pure brilliance, blown squeaky clean by the wind, humming with colour and possibility. My camera has leapt back to life. I can’t get enough of that blue. Can you?

He is occupied, and I am still. Pure perfection.

Live tarantulas. Shiny, crunchy, palm-sized (unconfirmed) madagascar hissing cockroaches. Rock-jumping bullfrogs. A see-through beehive. Foot-long jungle-dwelling millipedes. Indonesian beetles so huge they had horns, not feelers.

Evan’s screams of delight rang through the halls of the natural history museum, peppered with the If-Only-My-Legs-Moved-As-Fast-As-My-Eyes patta-patta-pat of his sneakers. He ran circles, pointing and squealing at each diorama like a kid on a spinning fairground ride waving to buddies on each pass. He played with seal bones, measured a whale and almost turned himself inside out at the sight of the horses at the paddock next door.

Seeing him thrilled is crack. I want more. I’ll take him anywhere to reproduce it.

After that we roamed the hallowed stacks at the famed Woozles, where two enormous, kid-height railway scenes left Evan wanting another set of godzilla hands.

Then we left. And he freaked.

After that we walked to Cora’s for lunch, for its yummy food (hollandaise sauce, sausage and brie on the same plate) and its people who, when you sheepishly apologize for the state of the floor upon departure, say Don’t Worry! like they really mean it.

Then he freaked. And we left.

After that we walked to the playground at the Halifax Common, one of the best in the city. Slides and swings and wonky bridges and whoop-dee-doos: and repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

Then we left. And he freaked.

After that we drove home. He slept. And we pulled into the driveway. And he slept. Carrying him into the house, he koala-wrapped his legs around me, nuzzled his face in my neck. I thought is there a chance? and sat down in the la-z-boy for glory: he slept on me, while we rocked. Not since he was a wee baby has he done that. It was hot and neck-crampy and deliciously wonderful, a rare gift of stillness and intimacy during this high-motion era.

Then he woke, and we talked about the day, all the things we’d done and seen. He dressed in his Finnish coveralls and his rainboots, and we went outside in the pre-dinner dark to poke around in the backyard mud. Here he is, filled to the brim with input. And me? Filled to the brim with toddler, heart and soul.

Thanksgiving weekend. Blinding, soul-cleansing sunshine, frost on the grass in the morning, woodsmoke thick in the air. Kitchen counters are heavy with squash and gourds and pumpkin and swiss chard and soft, buttery market brioche and all goodness. I bake pumpkin spice cookies with brown butter icing while cranberry sauce simmers on the stove, filling the house with gingery, nutmeggy warmth.

Epic domesticana restores me. The ritual and hospitality of daylong roasting, pastry-rolling, wine and yumminess, indulgence, contentment. Full bellies and unbuttoned pants and tucking in for winter.

We leave the grocery store with the best of intentions and two months later, cleaning out the cupboards, conduct an en-masse health food dump. Beginning with the stale, unopened All-Bran, which we bring to the beach for a lesson in nature nurture.

They gather as we approach, feast-clucking.

We ceremoniously sprinkle the tiny brown nobules, which instantly balloon with grass sweat and dried-up droppings.

We stare at the ducks; the ducks stare incredulously at the ground.

Then it hits them: It’s Them Again. They won’t even pass over Mount Fibremore, skirting the edges with suspicion.

We go back the next day and the pile sits undisturbed, the ducks giving it embarrassed sideways glances, shuffling and waiting for the popcorn lady.

Sun streams through the window, the cheerful, basking sun of early spring. We’ve got nowhere to be, so we sit together in a bakery with a steaming mug of tea, a warm bottle of milk and a slice of banana bread to share. We get kissed by two basset hounds and a golden retriever. We go rock-hunting on the beach (they taste salty: we checked), and our feet get wet from stomping in the slop at low tide. A banner day. A day during which shoe-bombers and land mines and faraway horrors do not exist. Restoration for the news-weary soul.

In case you haven’t had a day like that lately, go here with your headphones on and the volume turned up. On a ‘time-to-go-live-in-the-woods’ day, when your emotional arteries are clogged. And you might think, like I did: somehow, someday, we’re going to get through to each other. How can we be so creative, so joyful, and not figure it out?

I’ve just had a perfect Saturday morning.

Evan slept in until 7:30, and woke me by cooing happily in his crib. He waited patiently while I got out of bed and dressed, occupying himself (a new and fabulous skill, self-occupation). After his morning tasters, we headed to the Hubbards Farmers’ Market as the mist lifted from the bay.

Wearing his favourite plaid shorts and carrying his green squishy frog, Evan giggled at everyone we met.

When we got to the famed french breadmakers, they hadn’t yet run out of croissants and brioche. The fiddler played while we discovered garlic scapes, to make pesto later today. We found organic local kale, and a huge bunch of basil, and the most lovely, tiny turnips with enormous tasty greens. I even indulged in a long bouquet of meadow flowers (my dad would scoff at that since it includes goldenrod, the bane of his existence as a gardener, but it’s perfectly maritime and earns its place).

Home we went, chatting to folks along the way.

Even in summer, our woodstove gives off a faint smoky, woodsy scent that makes me love opening the front door (daydreaming in Vancouver, it's how I always hoped our house would smell). Evan had his second breakfast and I put him in his crib, where he fussed a bit but then fell asleep for his nap.

This is a new thing – with Justin away on Briar Island working at the Coast Guard lifeboat station there, I’ve decided to start letting Evan cry a bit so that he learns to fall asleep on his own. I don’t feel the gut-wracking guilt that some people talk of, listening to their baby cry – it doesn’t last long and I know he’s fine (being engrossed in the new Harry Potter book helps too).

As Evan napped, I made a huge omelette with garlic and local portobello mushrooms, and two steaming mugs of murchie’s tea. The sun is shining through the window, and the waves are crashing on the shore in front of the house. Later we’ll go to the beach and bring Evan’s wee boat, and go for a dip in St. Margaret’s Bay.

I don’t take mornings like this for granted anymore. With a baby, you appreciate them for what they are – gifts.

I am calm, unhurried, content. Evan seems to feel the same. I’m not dwelling on overdue power bills, credit card debt. I’m just happy to have fresh flowers in the house.

When I was a kid, my friend Jenny Mae and I used to skip through our neighbourhood. Why? Just because.

Sometimes you just get so jazzed up with being outdoors, you can't help yourself. It's one of those purely goofy, joyful things you just don't do as an adult. What a shame.

Yesterday afternoon I came close to skipping. I put on a pair of normal-person jeans (hooray!), my winter shell that I haven't been able to wear in months (woo hoo!), and bent over with ease to (shock of shocks!) tie my shoes. I went out for a walk on the most perfect, sunny winter day. Crisp and cold, just enough to put roses on your cheeks.

I felt like I could walk for hours, like with every step I took I might leave the ground. It made me so happy to be outside, to breathe deeply and to know that I'm a mom. Just about felt like skipping.

Then the cellphone rang in my pocket, and before even saying hello I could hear Evan's hungry "Waaaaa!". And my joyful, almost skipping-worthy excursion turned into my first post-natal sprint.