He still needs me. Last night he awoke at midnight, upset and confused. A beam of light spilled into his room as I opened the door and he saw me through the gloom, gulped back a sob, reached for me over the side of his crib.

Oh! Oh, mommy. Oh my, there you are. I woke up and I didn’t know where you were and I was mad and then I cried and then I got madder and now I’m all backwards and inside out. Can I have milk truck? Can I have warm and soft and safe, please please right now?

But times have changed. The milk truck is empty. He can climb on and toot the horn, but there's nothing to deliver. And there I was, a soothing has-been, all thumbs (‘Welcome to my world,’ says Daddy. ‘No sure-fire fix-alls here!’).

So I climbed with him into bed and clutched him to me until he gave up. His body went heavy and still, his wet face and breath warm on my neck. And he slept. I was tempted to stay that way, all night. So addictive, so rare in these squirmy times.

With every step forward, our little sponge grows up and away from us. I see him across a room standing at a binful of toys, picking out his favourites. And I feel a rush of simultaneous pride and panic. He has baths all by himself, turns the pages of a book, goes limp to escape our arms and squiggle back to the floor.

Go, kiddo! I think. But then.. No, stop right there! Don’t ever change! Stay little, so you’ll still want to sleep on me.

Taking stock, doing a once-over to check for battle wounds. What has become of me, now that the end of the birthing and breastfeeding gauntlet is near? Scars? Pinches? Puckers? Droops? Check: all of the above. I am the same as I was, pound for pound. As they say, it takes nine months to gain it and about the same to lose it. But weighing the same and being the same are two completely different things.

The prospect of aging has never kept me up at night. But… but. In the mirror is a nonsensical cocktail of wrinkles and sags, youthful energy and zits. I am less elastic, less supple. My knees are sore in the morning, yet I feel more capable than ever before. This is the thirties, a decade of change and contradictions. I no longer feel ‘cute’, but substantial. Ten times the woman I was before Evan.

The other night Justin looked at me and said, “Your ba-ooo-gaa boobs are gone!” And so they are. The only mark that lingers is my belly stripe, faded but true.

And right on cue, the lobbying has begun: Sooo! When will Evan get a little brother or sister? Please, for the love of all that’s holy, let me enjoy a couple of years of hard-won back-to-normalness first.

Last night Justin was bugging me, saying I secretly wanted to watch Spike TV’s ‘Robocop’ movie marathon (a ruse he employs to reveal his own true desires – e.g., “You want a cookie, don’t you? Yes, you do…”).

No, I don’t, I replied. Do too, he said. Do not, I said. Do too plus one, he said. Do not plus infinity, I said. Do too plus infinity plus one, he said. Which then led to the classic quandry: can you add anything to infinity? The person who does it always says yes.

Until we must teach by example, we'll wrestle in the house, not finish our crusts, call a jigger a jigger, laugh when he farts and eat cheez whiz on white bread. Free license until he's old enough to say "But.. but.. but.. You Do It!"

Can't write long gotta go can't stay gotta watch and watch never a moment with lazy eyes no no way 'cuz before you know it a crudnut off the floor has gone into the mouth or he's off around the corner to god knows where and it's always Woah! Wait up! Slow down! Hold up! Pipe down!