Laundry. Jiggling. Feeding. Wiping. Standing at the counter with lunch in one hand and baby in the other, whistling The Itsy Bitsy Spider.

Each day fills me up, makes me feel busy. It’s because I don’t stop. But there’s not much nutrition there, not much substance. Not much to invigorate body or mind. The evening finds me overwhelmed and bloated, brain filled up to the brim and yet completely empty.

Justin asks me how the day was, and I don’t know what to say. I could tell him about how I’ve decided that President’s Choice laundry detergent is just as good as Tide. But then I’d have to hear myself say that out loud. And that would just be depressing, wouldn’t it?

I don’t mind being a stay-at-home mom, but then the word ‘housewife’ comes into mind and makes me feel pinched and lonely. Like I should start clipping coupons. Or spend an afternoon rearranging the bookshelf. Again.

On another note, I’ve finally agreed we should sell the kayaks. Another door closing, at least for now - a door that led to our old west coast life. So many memories.

Paddling a white sand beach on Thormanby Island at midnight while hundreds of fish darted underneath us, lit up like fireworks by the phosphorescents.

Or that time a sea otter, a rare thing to see, floated leisurely past me on his back, gorging on a pile of mussels perched on his belly.

All the times we had to fight our way out of some rough channel, working against tide, wind and swell, while the bows of our boats crashed down with every wave. The beer at the end of those paddles always felt so cold, so deserved.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re doing anything right. At 4 AM the other night, after four unsuccessful hours of trying to get Evan to stay asleep in the crib, I gave up. I deliberately fed him into a stupor and plunked him where he’s happiest – milk dripping from his chin, snugged into his carseat.

The baby whisperers heckled in my head.

Ooooh! That’s the worst thing she could do! She picked him up when he cried, did you see that! He didn’t need to eat, but she fed him anyway! And he’s in his carseat – horrors! He’ll never sleep on his own! He’ll be getting her up a dozen times a night until he’s fifteen!

Sometimes the pull of five or six hours of sleep is just too strong, no matter what the books say. So I cheat, and work dubious magic. What’s the verdict? “Dangerous territory” or “whatever works”? The jury is still out.

Nevertheless, four out of every five baby whisperers agree: six months old is the turning point.

Last chance to tighten up your routine and give up your shortcuts. Until then, they say, you do whatever it takes to make a crying baby happy (or sleepy). Because before six months, everything is ‘I Need’. After six months, you get more ‘I Wants’. A simple but critical distinction that changes the game and brings on development of The Pout, The Screech and The Tantrum. Hence the need to begin nurturing the ‘self-soothing’, ‘low-maintenance-sleeping’ child. Whatever that means.

It’s like a diet – starting tomorrow, I’ll do it by the book. I’ll get my headstart so that six months doesn’t sneak up and bite us in the ass when we’re not looking. Tomorrow is another night, fresh with no mistakes in it. But it’s amazing how fast another month goes by when you’re find reasons every day to start being righteous tomorrow.

It's official. Our poor boy is teething with a vengeance. Onesies soaked to the belly. Nonstop hand chomping. He just isn’t himself. He doesn’t know what he wants, and goes from giggling to beet-red with pain in a heartbeat.

“Pick me up! Put me down! Feed me! I’m not hungry! Take me for a walk! Don’t take me anywhere! I want a bath! I can’t stand baths! I want you! Go away!”

Phew. Growing up is not for the faint of heart.

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.

Watch out: it’s contagious. Maybe it’s like when you get a new car – all of a sudden, all you see is Toyotas everywhere.

Everyone’s pregnant. An almost-sister, the almost-sister’s friend, a cousin, an elementary school classmate, an old neighbour’s girlfriend, a ski patroller’s may-as-well-be-wife. Babies are going to be dropping like crazy this fall. You know who you are.

Looking back, here's what I should have kept top of mind when I was pregnant.

• Even if you don’t feel all that great a lot of the time, you’re beloved by everyone. You have elevated status in the world right now. As you get bigger, strangers will stare at you, smile at you, hold doors for you and ask you how far along you are. Enjoy it.
• Don’t be afraid, and don’t worry. There’s no point.
• Moisturize! Moisturize! Moisturize!
• A whole new community is waiting for you on the other side. Despite your most noble intentions, you will find yourself having entire conversations about poop. And you’ll enjoy it.
• No matter how bewildered you feel right now, you will eventually get the hang of the following: a) picking up your floppy newborn; b) cutting teeny tiny fingernails; c) falling asleep and/or waking up in five seconds flat; d) breastfeeding; e) doing fifteen things at once, while breastfeeding.
• Don’t buy into grandiose declarations from people on the bus and in the grocery store. About pregnancy, about birth, about your life as you know it ending.
• Not that your life as you know it is ending – but go out and see movies. Now. Lots of them.
• Your baby may be covered in acne, be “a waker”, have forcep dents or a franciscan monk’s pattern baldness. But don’t worry. Your baby will be the most soft, the most delicious in the entire world. And he’s all yours. There’s no feeling quite like it.
  

I think it’s safe to say that we’ve made it through boot camp.

When you have a newborn, you’re exempt from comment and consequence. Your primary goal is survival. You do whatever you can to make your life easier, employing whatever jiggles, wriggles or witchdoctors you need to keep the cries at bay.

But once you’ve got yourself a full-fledged baby, you start being concerned with taking too many shortcuts. The word echoing most frequently in my brain? Habits. As in bad ones.

For instance, Evan has had a cold for the past couple of weeks. The frequency of snot-o-lanches has actually surpassed that of poop-o-lanches. He was waking up at night because he couldn’t breathe, and once awake, he was so congested he couldn’t nurse.

We’ve been putting him to sleep in his carseat to keep his head elevated, which has helped to say the least – it has a swaddling effect that keeps him asleep for wonderfully long periods of time. I’ve been getting 7 and 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep for many nights now, which is amazing (despite waking up on the brink of explosion).

We’re loving this nighttime carseat trick, but something tells me it’s false progress. What if it results in him not being able to fall asleep in his crib? Are we making a monster?

These days, every method we employ begs that question.

If we don’t check ourselves now, we could end up with a 6-month old that won’t eat, or won’t sleep, or somehow won’t be the Evan we know how to deal with. I fear a slippery slope ahead.

One tantrum plus one moment of parental weakness may equal a future in which he'll eat microwaved pizza pops for breakfast, watch 'Girls Gone Wild' on Grampy Doug's satellite TV, drive an all-terrain vehicle and grow a rattail. And work the tilt-a-whirl.

But as Justin put it, “Complete idiots bring up normal kids. We’re only half-idiots, so I’m sure he’ll turn out fine.”

Meanwhile, Evan has discovered his hands, and loves to grab anything within reach with enthusiasm and surprising ferocity. Our new family motto, therefore, is as follows (spoken while we carefully wrench a newly discovered body part from that rowdy little fist): Be kind to your jigger, and your jigger will be kind to you!

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?