There are a few things I hope to impress upon Evan as he grows.

• Don’t be fussy with your food. It’s impolite. Choose two or three things that you don’t like, and learn to appreciate the rest.
• Eat the rainbow. Don’t waste your time on white fluff that sticks to the roof of your mouth.
• Learn how to cook well, and the ladies will be lining up outside your university dormroom.
• Stay away from yellow snow.

In our eating adventures so far we’ve crossed yams, peas, plums and bananas off our list, to name a few. One final chapter looms – protein. Meat. And I hesitate. Me of all people, who thinks of bacon as dessert.

Evan is pristine. A perfect little being with no mistakes in him. And here we are, on the brink of launching his own journey of personal pollution. It all starts innocently enough, with a spoonful of pureed chicken.

Rosy-cheeked Dr. Andrew Weil, my righteous angel, sits on my left shoulder in lotus position. He gently reminds me to drink more green tea, stay away from nitrates and eat tofu. Grizzled Anthony Bourdain, famed chef, sits on my right shoulder, smirking while he nibbles foie gras off the end of his pitchfork.

Guess who says what:

• You only get one body. Treat it as a temple, and it will serve you well.
• You only get one body. Stuff it with diversity and deliciousness.
• Vegetarian-ness is godliness. A meat-free diet helps you live longer and healthier.
• Vegetarians are whining, culturally deprived jerks.
• The optimal diet limits chemicals, processed foods, alcohol, fats and salts.
• The only thing I won’t eat is monkey brain.

I’m afraid Dr. Weil is fighting a losing battle. As ideal as it would be, vegetarianism is not in our future. On a winter day, simmered lentils and spicy sausage is just too good.

On second thought though, perhaps we’ll start Evan off with some tofu. Point: Weil.

Daddy is home. It might only be my imagination, but Evan is thrilled. He’s got the giggles. We’ve never heard him laugh like this before. He finds things spontaneously funny, whereas not long ago, we had to work for every chuckle. Now we can see that his ever-important sense of silliness is developing.

Hearing your kid belly laugh for the first time, you stop in your tracks. The sound of a soul, growing. A sound that deserves instantaneous world peace.

Even though I know we’ll someday take it for granted, I tell myself now I’ll never forget how amazing this is, this sound. He becomes his own person, right before our eyes.

As the Lunenburg fisheries memorial attests, 1927 was a very bad year.

Last weekend Evan and I stood on the docks scanning the list of names carved into rock, wondering what storms or bad luck prevented those fathers and brothers and sons from returning to port.

Entire familes of men, two and three generations lost in the same night. Mack, Owen, Ronald and Warren Knickle. Edward and William Maxner. Guy, Mars and Raymond Selig. Elvin, George, Wilfred and Irving Tanner. James, Samuel and Samuel Warren. Burns, Bradford, Gordon and Raymond Williams.

What happened out there? Did they get any comfort from being in it together, or did witnessing each other make it worse?

I don’t love Justin any more now than I did before. But having a baby with him turns that love into something more tangible.

He is working for the Coast Guard right now for two weeks, and halfway through his time away I know he’s already desperately Evan-sick. Sick enough for the self-declared computer-phobe to park himself in front of the desktop at the station and explore the ‘inter-web’ in search of new pictures of his boy, hoping none of the other crewmen hear him snuffling with pride.

And we miss him too. We have so much to show him when he gets home. New tricksies and cowlicks and giggles and chompers and num-nums.

On the Lunenburg docks, I couldn’t help thinking of all the women who got bad news during that terrible season, their treasured men and boys taken by the sea. It would have made me sad before, in a passing sort of way.

Now, it makes my heart stop to think of it.

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.

Today is Evan’s seven-month birthday. He chomps with his new teeth, wriggles frantically and crawls to and fro. Squash and green beans and oatmeal, so many new adventures. He’s even old enough now to stare, mouth agape, at the television. Can’t take our eyes off him anymore, either – he’s on the move. Our kid. More a kid now than a baby. And I am once again a Sharon, Lois and Bram fan. From U2 to Little Rabbit Foo-Foo.

Hearing squeals and splashes, I peek in to see Evan with his dad in the bath. My two guys, hanging out.

A daddy-sized t-shirt hanging on the clothesline next to an Evan-sized one. These are the random moments than make you feel a family.