I wish someone would just tell me what to do. Rules, not opinions. When you heat water, it boils. Scientific truths: that’s what I want. Instead, what I have is the following:

If your baby cries, pick him up right away. But do not under any circumstances enter the room. Offer him the breast, but never nurse. Wait five minutes, then fifteen, then twenty, then none. Pat his back, but do not approach the crib.

If you believe in letting a baby cry indefinitely, a book exists to back you up. If you believe in letting a baby cry intermittently, a book exists to back you up. If you believe in feeding a baby on-demand, a book exists to back you up. Step right up, one and all! Validation for sale. Goes down some smooth.

It’s bedtime. After thirty minutes of Evan crying in his crib, I wish I could siphon off the worries and hecklers knocking up against each other in my head.

He needs to learn how to get himself back to sleep, interjects Dr. Weissbluth. You were giving him a great gift. After thirty minutes, I caved. Sabotage. I nursed, and he sputtered and huffed and sank again into an exhausted, sweaty stupor. Question for Dr. Weissbluth in the peanut gallery: what was the point? I could have gone in right when he woke up, whipped out the happy button and gotten him back to sleep in three minutes flat – and saved us both the trouble.

I feel so lonely sometimes, being a mom. Justin is terrific, involved, steadfast. But the bosom is still mine to bear, and the reins are still primarily in my hands. In an effort to do better, I seem to be able to do nothing right. My shoulders are clenched, my chest is tight and I’m sick of thinking. I need to tear off all my clothes and run screaming down the street, jump into the bay. Shock myself out of this cross-eyed funk.

Sometimes it’s 1 AM, sometimes 3:30. Sometimes both. Hold me! Feed me! Love me! Don’t you dare leave me! It’s exhausting. It drains me, emotionally and literally. I am left the next day having to make bottle after bottle, milked-out.

When we’re on the up and up, his tiny sneakers stay on. People on the street point and smile at his preppy plaid jacket, collar up, hair blowing in the breeze. He giggles on cue, and opens his mouth agreeably to any spoon. His hair smells delicious. We wake up at 6 AM to contented babbling, and by 8 AM he curls up in a ball and snuggles down for a three-hour nap. Errands are ‘adventures’, and daddy is hysterically funny.

So, we look for the upside. New teeth, despite the drama that accompanies them, bring his sweet face closer to boyhood. And the biggest prize at the end of the amazing, incredible, treasured breastfeeding era: no more bras with snaps. No more bras with snaps. No more bras with snaps.

The fourteen-year-old in me is rolling her eyes.

It’s because I realize, without a doubt, that I will tell my children I can’t sleep until I know you’re home! Why? Just because! Someday you’ll have your own, and you’ll understand!

Kids can’t possibly perceive how much parents have invested in them. How much tumult and mess and uproar and energy, and love – the most criminally overused, diluted word in all of history. I use it to express my passion for Irish cheese. It’s not sufficient anymore in regards to my son.

I knew this when I first saw two purple, slimy legs kicking like mad in an operating room, protesting examination amid cold plastic and bright lights.

I’ll go to the end of the earth for you.

I love the way he twiddles his belly button when he thinks we’re not looking.

I love how he joyously faceplants into a pile of cheerios and comes up with most of them stuck to his cheeks.

I love his droopy drawers.

I love the four seconds that immediately follow a tumble, during which time stands still. That flash of a moment in which his brain contemplates one of two responses: to wail in shock; or to shrug, grin and press on.

When we’re exasperated with each other, I put him in his crib to exhaust himself and come to his senses. And... is this normal? His yelling, the force of his determination - it cracks me up.

It fills me with some strange, nervous energy, gives me the giggles. Which he doesn't appreciate. So he empties his lungs, clears the air. Then he settles to the business at hand (emptying me) and we cuddle each other to sleep.

Can we get workers’ compensation? We should be able to. Boisterousness breeds bruises. In his enthusiasm and determination to reach fascinating things (chest hair, unsuspecting cats’ tails, bottles of beer) we get in the way and feel the blows from elbows, fingernails, teeth and knees. Ouch! Oooff! Ack!

Another discovery of a gentler nature: he loves to twiddle. He comes upon something small (a raisin, a cheerio, daddy’s nipple) and pokes at it thoughtfully with one finger (“Can I get milk from that? Hey! Daddy’s been holding out on me!”). Twiddle twiddle!

On our minds (guess whose?)

• We’re going out for Halloween, to the Shore Club in Hubbards, same as last year. Except this time, no passenger in utero, I can indulge in a few beer. It’s the biggest and best party in Halifax, hundreds of people, all seriously decked out. It will be our first big night out since Evan was born, just Justin and Kate (a.k.a. ?). God bless Grandparents.
• Sometimes I don’t like eating. I squish my lips together and snort at them, they say like a snotty seal. But then they make me laugh and stuff in spoonfuls. They say Gotcha!
• I’m running out of milk these days. It is being rationed, saved like liquid gold for naptime when it works its magic. He pulls at my shirt, cheesy grin, kneeling at the trough. C’mon! Gimme gimme! I always figured when they get old enough to unzip you, it’s time to stop. But now that time has come, and it just makes me laugh. I like that he still needs me. I’m still his favourite, tutti-frooti.
• I like peek-a-boo. I know how to play, now.
• She’s making me go out for Halloween. It’s our annual argument. I pretend I don’t like dressing up, and she nags and nags, and finally I give in.
• He secretly loves Halloween. I’m fine with nagging, because we always have a fantastic time and then I can say I Told You So.

I’ll have to restrain myself. Sailing. The muppet show. Snow forts. Warm cookies. Dribble castles. There’s so much to show Evan. At nine months, he’s finally at the age where he’s starting to soak it up. At the beach he wriggles his toes in sand, and at the Public Gardens he marvels at the brazen ducks who nibble hungrily at his pantleg.

But being a sponge takes a lot of work. You gotta move around, get from here to there, or you might miss something. No time for cuddles! Squirmy worm. Put me down, gotta go gotta crawl gotta stand and yell oooOO-WAA! Busy busy.