The boy is six months old. We’re at the first peak of the roller coaster, about to drop into the ride. We thought the ascent was crazy – higher and higher, nerves twitching, stomach turning with every clickity clack – but that was nothing compared to the corkscrews and up-enders that await.

Six months from now he’ll run away from us, growl like a tiger on command and say No! at bedtime. He’s well on his way. Pulling himself up to standing on rough and tumble legs. Squealing with delight at the new ticklish spots we discover now and then. Exploring the world of jolly jumpers and rice cereal and flipping on the change table. And the newest revelation - he can get his toes into his mouth. Joy!

But here comes the recurring theme: harried new mother yearns for solitary pedicure.

That desire to be myself rather than someone’s mom, just for a day or so. It’s simple things. Being able to wear my hair down with long, dangly earrings, exempt for a short time from those relentless little fists. Not wearing a nursing bra day and night. Eating slowly. Savouring a meal, instead of taking turns shovelling.

This morning I caught a glimpse of an MEC catalogue and said to Justin, ‘Remember when that used to be us? When we used to go onto glaciers and islands and snowfields and take pictures?’

Now, the only excitement we get is when we forget the diaper bag.

We fondly recall the era when our life was all about us. But this is magic in a way those days never were. He knows us, he knows we love him. I’ll surprise him in a crowd, and he lights up and looks at me like we share the world’s most marvellous secret. That’s worth a thousand B.C. weekends right there.

Six months old. We’re gods for him, in this brief window of omnipotence. Bearers of safety, warmth, giggles and tasters. But I know what we really are. We’re not gods. We’re sidekicks.