He counts. Counts! (Uuuunn – Oooooo – Feeeee – Orrrrr – Iiiive – Icksssss – Evvvvvn – Eeeehhh – Innnnne – Ennnnnn) His pointer finger is always cocked to alert our attention to: Shoes. Car. Truck. House! Apple. Elephant. All done! Up! Santa. Ho! Ho! Ho! He sings, almost constantly (Inkle Inkle Ill Sarr). He answers questions (Yeeeeaah). He thinks farting is hilarious (we should probably stop laughing).

He “kisses”.

He is all colour and lightness and curiosity and joy. The rough edges of his recent frustrations soften with every word, with expression, with the satisfaction that comes from speaking his mind and being understood.

We had a great Christmas, full of innumerable cousins and great-great-aunts and grammies and grampies and heaps and mountains of train sets and twizzlers and sparklers and whizz-bangers. Did I ever say we wouldn’t get carried away? We did. It’s impossible not to, knowing now what he likes (and being addicted to the fascinated absorption that comes from obliging them).

In the midst of the Best Time Ever he seeks me out, bashes a trail through the christmas morning aftermath and clambers onto my lap. Looks into my eyes, grins, throws his arms around my neck as if to say: Mama, this is the Best Time Ever. I just had to tell you. Now I go. You watch me! And I do, so proud, so blessed.

Here we are at a u-pick in Lunenburg, our home county and world capital of christmas trees, tall ships and pirates. They sell these trees on streetcorners in Manhattan for $400 apiece, proving that entrepreneurship trumps even the most carefully honed Maritime sensibilities, every time.

Evan, two hours late for his nap, is just about to break out into a wail, kick Justin in the head and flip over backwards to run away into the snow and slip on an iced-up mud puddle. I am squinting, because it wouldn't be a picture of me if I weren't. Justin is being a saint, because it wouldn't be a picture of him if he weren't.

And all of us unintentionally sport matching puffy vests - because the family that dresses together... what? Gets beat up on the playground together? Touch-eh.

What was that I said years ago? Oh right, I remember now: Whenever we have a kid, I hope it's a goof.

Apparently, my wish has been granted.

No, it doesn’t involve Viggo. Nor James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. My most potent fantasy is shared, methinks, by all those females with hangers-on of the genetic variety: the fantasy of being alone. Flavours abound.

When you’re breastfeeding, it’s the fantasy of detachment (not emotional, but literal). Going out for more than two hours at a time. A yoga class. Lunch with a friend. Grocery shopping without the electric shockage of an inside-out baby at the checkout. It’s not profound time, but it’s paradise.

In the thick of it (the two-month birthday), you’re convinced that time like that will NEVER, EVER happen again.

When you’re toddling, it’s the fantasy of free will. You primp, go downtown in that pair of supercool boots you never get to wear, get ten thousand things done, feel fabulously indulgent and faintly hip. Or perhaps not. Perhaps you don’t shower until 3 PM, let the morning drift away in fleecy frumpitude with a pot of tea and a portobello omelette (which you take an hour to eat, just because you can) and a pile of trashy magazines.

Either way, you’re off-duty from your post as Chief Killjoy. Pure decadence. A day-long smile of contentedness.

Speculation due to lack of experience: when you’re preschooling or tweening or anything in the middle or beyond, it’s the fantasy of offspring self-government. Or government administered by someone else. The space both inside and outside your head is yang-free, exempt from intervention (yangs and whines being, from my perspective, potentially more taxing than the physical demands of ten babies put together).

I can imagine, looking ahead: plain and simple peace and quiet. Off-duty from your post as Chief Bad Cop. Bliss.

I sat the other day in the parking lot of the hardware store, alone, eating a sub and a bag of ketchup chips. And smiling, thinking to myself: This is great. This is the BEST LUNCH I have EVER HAD in my WHOLE LIFE. What should I do next? Hmm. Let’s just finish this yumminess, and then we’ll see.

That’s the great thing about living the fantasy. You’re so tickled to be in it, you’re easy to please. On fantasy day, playschool day, nothing can dim my spirits. Cashiers smile and drivers wave and the sun shines and Frenchy’s gives up yet another epic haul. And I get home and still have two hours before the boys come through the door.

Two days per week. Butterflies flip when I see him again, when he squeals MAMA! and explodes through the door, clambers into my arms and sings to me while we roll around on the floor, giggling together. I am refreshed.

That’s more potent than an entire roomful of Viggos.