Justin and I are foot soldiers, gatekeepers and gods. We know our wee boy's every nook, cranny, suspicious odour, tummy rumble, giggle and squeak. Thanks to sheer time and effort, we are the only ones that can pull the rabbit out of the hat when the liquid sunshine hits the fan.

But babies are considered objects in the public trust, and the public just can’t resist speaking up. Case in point: consider the following from about the six-week mark of Evan’s life and my new motherhood.

Advice-Giver:  How’s it going? Are you getting any sleep?
Me:  It’s not too bad. He’s up a lot but he goes back to sleep alright.
Advice Giver:  That’s because he’s hungry, you see. His stomach is really, really small so he’ll need to eat a lot. You’ll have to feed him.
Me:  Uh, thanks. I wondered about that.

Our family and friends are beside us in the parenting and grandparenting trenches. Their thoughts and speculations are given in the spirit of collaboration. It’s all food for thought, and they're just keen to see us happy. We like that. Besides, we need to talk about this stuff with people who, like us, are truly concerned about the state of our son's bum.

The problem is when self-proclaimed baby experts pipe up - particularly those who don't know us. It starts with an observation (“Shouldn’t he be doing that by now?” or, “He shouldn’t be doing that anymore, should he?”) and ends with a diagnosis: “It’s because you…”

Wow. We never thought of that. Thank goodness you came along and saved us.

Upcoming parents be warned – you’re embarking on an adventure that requires a lot of courage and selective hearing. Even the most tupperware of people will become painfully sensitive. You are offended by criticism, starved for validation.

Yes, we are unsure of what we’re doing. Yes, we are defensive. But we need to choose and follow our own path. Because when it comes to our little monk, our bibidy-boo, our stinky-pie, there are only two experts in the whole, wide world. Me and his daddy.

Some sounds in life make you want to run away as fast as you can to shelter and safety. Air raid sirens. Packs of snarling, rabid rottweilers. Large explosions. Top 40 radio. And for me, belly bulging, due date approaching – babies.

Aside from anticipating labour pain, cracked nipples, non-sleeping zombiedom and having no more fun at least until retirement, one of my biggest pregnancy concerns was how repulsed I was to the sound of crying.

How could I possibly be a good mother, I wondered, when the presence of babies made me break out in hives? Could I build a soundproof box with breathing holes and a swinging door for food and water?

And more importantly, should it be for me or the kid?

Every time I was faced with one of those noisy, squished up little creatures, I would force a grin onto my face and exclaim, “Oh, how adorable!”, hoping I looked genuine. I was even one of those nasty childless people that would give dirty looks to infants on planes. I have no escape! How dare you? Do you realize I am going to have nightmares for two weeks because of you?

Life is different now. Sometimes, when Evan really works himself into a lather, I hold on to him for a moment to watch him yell. There’s something about it that is the essence of life, strength and health. Go, kid, go!

The quick intake of breath, the quivering chin and downcast lower lip of the pre-emptive pout, the squinted-up eyes, the glorious 'Whaaa!'. It’s a whole new language. Like the thousand different words Inuit people have for snow, there is no single cry.

There is the I’m Bored cry, the I’m Not Awake Yet But When I Am, I Am Going To Be Really Pissed Off cry, the I Can Smell That Milky Lady And I Know She’s Multi-Tasking And Making Me Wait cry, the How Dare You Laugh At Me cry, the Teething Sucks And I Don’t Care What You Say About Corn On The Cob cry.

And my all-time favourite: the I Need My Mommy cry. It fills me up with all things good. And no all-over body rash in sight.

Toots, our most dear, most divine cat, used to make admirable attempts to curl up atop my giant, pregnant belly. I wondered if she could feel the shifts and bumps from its occupant – and if the occupant thought it was mommy that was purring.

Everyone warned us: post-baby life is not reconcilable with cat-loving life. Pets of all statures, ages and species will instantly drive you to drink. You just won’t have time for them, they told us. It will be one more hassle that you would rather do without.

Inconcievable, I thought. Impossible. It will never happen.

She knows when I’m trapped under the baby, and choses those moments to shred the couch, barf on the carpet, chew leather, eat plastic and swipe any breakable in paw’s reach with a glorious smash to the floor. And we actually used to think all of the above was cute.

And, as she helpfully pointed out to me just now, she has been a Most Excellent Big Sister since she has decided not to eat Evan for breakfast after all.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more apprehensive about anything in my life.

Breastfeeding is a bizarre concept. Fun Bags, Titties, Dirty Pillows. Until you have a baby, they’re just as they are – lovely, funny, perfectly female – a body part in line with all the rest. Once you get pregnant, they become something entirely new: a Food Source. Milk with which to feed your young. They're sacred. It's a bosom's highest calling.

Thank goodness Evan knew what to do.

He has a vigorous and grateful appetite, just like his dad. Even in the hospital, he gulped and gorged with abandon – what a sight. For the first six weeks I had terrible kinks in my neck from staring down at him in amazement as he ate.

It took some getting used to. Pulls and grabs and toe-curling ouches and swelling and spraying and public displaying. But it didn’t take long for all inhibitions to disappear in the interest of getting the job done no matter where and when. And there are so many rewards. Milk moustaches and spit-ups that go SPLAT! on the floor and triplings of weight. All from me and my booby food.

My milk is Tutti-Fruiti. Which just so happens to be Evan’s favourite flavour. What a coincidence.

Amazing what a little sunshine can do.

Evan and I have baby bjorned and jog-strolled all over the beaches of the south shore, saying hello to all the hatching spiders and full-of-beans chipmunks and singsongy chickadees along the way. Makes one feel a little less housewifeish. A little less house-arrested like Martha Stewart, minus the cedar henhouse and pastry staff.

One year ago, I found out I was pregnant.

Today, Evan is four months old and becoming a boy before our eyes. He loves to stand up, and bears just about all his own weight. Our newest game is to stand on the bathroom counter in front of the mirror as he jumps from a squat to a ‘Look at Meee!’ rock star stance, squealing at himself with delight.

When he’s nursing, he pops off every now and then to look up at me, wide, milk-drippy grin on his face, like he’s flirting. It turns me into butter and he knows it.

Although that’s nothing to when he laughs, which he’s just started doing. Real laughing, deliberately connected chuckles. It’s heaven. And on his belly, he’ll inchworm forward in an almost-crawl, leaving behind him what Justin calls a ‘little slug trail’ of teething drool. We’re so proud we’re just about bursting.

On low-energy days though, I wish I could just turn his switch to OFF. Just for an hour or two.

To decompress, to be selfish, to be luxuriously lazy. But then I remember that as he grows up the baby will disappear, never to be seen again. And I’ll miss four-month-old Evan as desperately as I now miss newborn Evan.

So I drench him in kisses, smother him with cuddles, blow raspberries on his belly, rub my nose into the long, silky hair at the back of his neck. All the liberties I'm entitled to as his mom.

Because before long he'll groan and say, "Uggh gross, quit it, Ma!" when I lick my finger and rub a smudge off his cheek. As he should. Until then, I'm going to try to remember to get my fill, no matter how long the day.