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.