Does it make sense to feel powerful and undignified at the same time?

Yes. Especially if you’ve just given birth.

At this pinnacle of womanhood, I feel less womanly than ever. Any grace I had has been channeled into our beautiful son, leaving me feeling like a flat bottle of pop abandoned at the back of the fridge.

I miss having those great days. The ones where no matter what you generally think about yourself, you walk a little taller because you’re mysteriously at some version of your best. You feel put-together, polished. You feel good in what you’re wearing, good in your skin. These days often come out of nowhere, a lovely surprise that gives you a sort of peace with yourself.

On January 5th, the Kate I knew was abducted by aliens, taken to a solar system far, far away, disassembled for curiosity, then re-assembled and dropped back on earth, naked and shivering.

But they got me mixed up.

I’m put back together backwards, with some warped parts and the odd loose screw. I’m not myself. No more great days in sight. Not with wet splotches on my shirt. Not when I can’t get my pants done up.

In bed last night with the sheets clutched up around my neck, I decided: there’s nothing more unappealing than dwelling on one’s unappealingness. But it’s not easy to figure out how to be a non-pregnant Kate again with the heckler in my head:

Hide those bits! Get out of bed backwards, so he won’t see! You leaky dope, you really think you are what you were, wearing a polka-dot nursing bra? You’ve got stitches where stitches should never be! Don’t expect this body to co-operate any time soon! Oh, and by the way, you’ve got spit-up down your extra-large shirt! AGAIN!

Interestingly enough, in addition to having grown a new badonkadonk, I think I’ve also grown a new emotional fusebox. I hear the voice in my head, but at the moment I expect to get miserable from it, the fuse trips. I can’t seem to muster the necessary despair for a good cry. Some unusual form of post-partum self-preservation, I guess.

So where does this leave me, other than being most comfortable in complete darkness?

A strange state of acceptance. I can't be bothered to spend time considering precisely how I'm no longer myself. It's time to get up with the lights on. You have to start somewhere.

I've always puzzled at people who speculate which parent a baby's eyes, nose or mouth comes from. Babies, to me, have always just looked like babies.

But I've just joined the league of People- Who-Spend-Hours-A-Day- Staring-At-A-Baby, and I think I get it. Now that Evan has more alert time with his eyes open, a pattern of expressions is starting to reveal itself. I look at him and somehow know that he'll be making that same face when he's concentrating, bored, sleepy or content - at age twenty.

Evan makes the same face as I did when I was little. The same chin, mouth and nose, I think (and the same love of stripes). It's a strange but gratifying feeling, that confirmation that this new person actually came from a bit of me and a bit of Justin.

Meanwhile, Justin says Evan has his bum.

As lucky as that makes our son, I'm hoping for more.

We're starting to feel a little more human. Evan is sturdier, less floppy and more consolable. We've walked down Spring Garden Road with the stroller in the winter sunshine, stopped at Pete's for lunch, gotten fancy coffee for Justin at the Italian Market. Positively ordinary, wonderfully so.

The unexpected challenge? Not dealing with the poop-o-lanches, remembering to bring all his necessities or mastering the carseat.

It's learning to accept that he's going to cry in public, and to not get stressed over it.

We're slowly becoming on-the-fly parents. Dancing around a restaurant with him, getting him humming at the milk bar in ten seconds flat no matter where we are.

Best of all, our champion eater has given his mom a fantastic gift by taking to the occasional bottle. I've figured out the pump to express milk, which makes you feel, well, very dairy - but what a revelation. I went to yoga this week. Yoga! Heaven. It's never felt so good to be so sore. Justin can feed him now, a real treat. It's a pretty special feeling to be able to fill that belly and watch his eyes roll into the back of his head in bliss.

Dare I say it? It feels like we're getting the hang of this.

But I've been warned: the moment we say that, our son will change the game. Oh well, bring it on. Moo.

The first smiles of a baby are the high of a new and powerful drug. The first time we noticed one that didn’t seem gas-induced, we both became hopelessly addicted.

I get flashes of him as the little boy he’ll become, running ahead of us on a walk to feed the ducks in the Public Gardens.

I see his messy hair, his runny nose and rosy cheeks, his tiny sneakers pounding on the gravel. And how thrilled he is to run headlong into a gathering of pigeons and watch them scatter.

This is the stuff that gets you through these first intense weeks of being tethered. Little gifts hiding where you least expect. On the change table, stark naked, two seconds before he pees on me: a grin. And I’m hooked.

What a lifesaver it is, these days, to spend time with other new parents.

They don’t try to cheer us up after a hard night, like people with grown kids who seem to remember their newborns’ days with more romance than reality. And they don’t stare at us blankly and wonder why we never do anything fun anymore, like people who have yet to take the leap.

Everyone asks you how you’re doing with it all.

People with grown kids respond best to good-day answers – “He smiled today!” or, “We had a great night! Another four-hour sleep!” – because when you answer honestly about a tough stretch, they seem determined to talk you out of it. It’s not that bad! Buck up! Cheer up!

Meanwhile, people without kids glaze over – they don’t want any answer at all. They’re just being polite. They don’t really want to hear it. I know – we felt that way once. What the heck is an episiotomy? Never mind, I don’t want to know.

New parents are our comrades, no matter how we answer. We have one of those days that makes us feel totally inept, and our comrades pat us on the back and say, “Just keep drinking lots of water.” They make us feel sane. Despite the great affection we have for everyone on both sides of the parenthood sandwich, thank god for comrades.

Sometimes I indulge fantasy, and think for a moment what I might like to do with a day to myself. Let’s revise: a day to myself and a guilt-free $500. Let’s revise again: a day to myself that contains as much time as I want, a guilt-free $1000 and an ability to be anywhere I want regardless of geography.

1. First, I wake up in cotton sheets so fresh they have creases. But I open my eyes an hour before I have to get up, meaning I can loll around pointlessly. I might even read a book, a fantastic book. I smell great. The sheets do not smell like sour milk.
2. At the risk of sounding shallow, I’m fifteen pounds lighter than I am now. No, make that sixteen, just to stick it to the man. One pound lighter than I was ten months ago. I slip into any flipping piece of clothing I please, without the assistance of WD-40.
3. Stuart McLean is on CBC.
4. Evan, who I love dearly and would never wish out of my life, is most conveniently at summer camp, carving his name into the cabin walls and canoeing and hunting for frogs and tormenting girls he secretly likes and complaining about the food and already being sad about it being almost over.
5. Justin, who I love dearly and would never wish out of my life, is most conveniently flyfishing in the BC interior at a mountain lake no one has known existed for a hundred years, catching dozens of his yet-to-be-decided most favourite fish ("What do you mean, what’s my favourite fish? Any fish, or just trout? The biggest fish I’ve ever caught was a Dolly Varden, but that’s a Char. Technically not a trout at all. You mean here, or anywhere? At what time of year? Do you mean a fish I’ve already caught, or one I’d like to catch?…").
6. I’d better get out of bed. I’m late for my appointment at the Stillwater Spa in the Hyatt Hotel in Toronto, the greatest thing about that city aside from its fabulous abundance of concrete. Honey is dripped between my freshly pedicured toes, french sea salt is rubbed on my completely pudge-free body, and fresh zing is applied to my previously blonde hair. Lunch is seared ahi tuna with pretentious, appropriately zen-like accompaniments, served on a square dish on a grass mat and eaten between sauna visits in a nothing but a bathrobe.
7. I visit my favourite tree, a thousand-year-old giant yellow cedar in the middle of Wallis Island in Barkley Sound off the west coast of Vancouver Island. I paddled there. The rain has just stopped and everything is deeply green, sweating and steaming.
8. I go to South Granville in Vancouver and spend $1000 on beautiful, invigorating clothes. None of them have stretchy waists.
9. Dinner is at Hapa Izakaya on Robson Street in Vancouver, a restaurant that's graced me and many others with some of the most memorable feasts ever. Justin joins me, and we stay for hours drinking japanese beer out of teeny tiny glasses. I order the blow-torched mackerel ten times.
10. The day is over now. I’m back to my fresh, milk-free sheets by 9 PM for an uninterrupted twelve-hour nap with the cat, who isn’t mad at me, and Justin, who doesn’t retreat to the couch.

When you wake up in reality though, there's something about the smell of your own sour milk - and your dearest son's poop - that truly makes you feel good. French sea salt and fancy pants not required.

A month ago tonight I said to Justin, "Some people say you should put a towel under you in case your water breaks in bed. Do you really think that's necessary? I mean, what are the odds?"

At 3 AM that night, the point was proven. And here we are, marvelling at our son. The peach fuzz on the edges of his ears. The delighted, goose-like honks he makes when naked. His sweet, milky breath. The way he stretches and farts so decadently every time he awakes from a deep sleep.

I never know what day of the week it is. It doesn’t matter anymore.

This afternoon, Justin said, “It’s Friday.” “Is it?” I replied. And we remembered the days when that would mean something. Perhaps a visit to a pub for a beer or two, or a weekend trip to pack for. Now, we never stop rocking. Even when we’re sitting on our own, no Evan in our arms, we forget to stop rocking. I think we probably jiggle in our sleep. New habits come fast when your teacher is a baby.

One of my favourite movies is Shawshank Redemption.

Remember the part where the old convict, after spending almost his whole adult life in prison, is released? He’s washed up and bewildered by life as a free man, and contemplates robbing a store so that he can ‘go home’ by getting sent back to jail. He just doesn’t know how to handle the outside world.

We were released too, a few times. But we've decided to rob the store and call it a winter.

We’re back where we belong – at home, rocking and jiggling. People keep suggesting to us to do things, to go places. But whenever we do, it’s stressful. We’re perpetually twitched up.

What if he wakes up and freaks out? What if we’re ten minutes from home and he needs to breastfeed, and we’re outside in the cold? Did we forget anything? Is the carseat tight enough? Is the carseat too tight? Is this worth it? Have we got enough food in the house to wait until the spring to go outside again?

We’ve both decided to not feel pressured to make appearances and be productive in the traditional sense of the word.

We’re holed up until winter passes, or until Evan stops crying his throat shut – whichever happens first. I’m the first to admit it … look up ‘anal-retentive’ in the dictionary and you’ll see a picture of us, doughy and wide-eyed.

He's a great kid, and by most measures, very manageable. But when he does blow a gasket, we want to be within arm's reach of home or boob. We feel a need to stay within our comfort zone, within our little ecosystem that we’ve set up to keep him happy and content.