Wherever we go, we are preceded by Evan’s self-made celebrity status.

We step over the threshold of our beloved café and before we’ve shaken the snow off our boots Evan calls out, “HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYBODY!” and trots off to survey the treats behind the glass, marvelling at the CHERRY EXPWOSION BAR! and the WOCKY WOAD BWOWNIE!, asking and repeating the name of each as though it’s the most unbelievable thing he will ever see in his whole entire life.

As he weaves through the tables patrons smile broadly, and he stops to tell them all of circus trains and breakdown trains and cranky trains and twubblesome twucks, counting fingers waggling in mid-air, Sir Evan Toppem Hat himself status reporting for the benefit of everyone in a hundred-foot radius.

“Oooooo, MOMMY! Looooook! Beautiful dewicious! Oooo, dat’s my most favourite, ya, dat right dere,” as he points earnestly at a double chocolate cookie the size of his own head. He scurries around to the kitchen door and pipes out, “Hey nice lady, can I have a cookie, pweeze? A-dis one, right dere, pweeze. Yup.”

On the way home Justin says do you think he’s a bit over the top? I mean, I know WE think he’s cute when he tugs on some random person’s sleeve and they attempt evasive action but fail and get dragged away against their will to the Island of Sodor, but do you think he’s… just like some toddler energy vacuum in the room wherever he goes, and do you think that grates on people?

He’s ours, and of course he makes us smile, and our emotional investment in him amplifies our seeing of the smiles of others and all but smothers our registering of anything less. So is it all just our bias, our perception of his curb appeal?

Doesn’t matter.

We want the world to see in our children what we celebrate as sassy, or determined, or relentlessly engaging. But in truth, we’re too busy giggling amongst ourselves, all like heh, there he goes, our little Juggernaut, to really notice.

++++++

Today, Evan turns three years old and Ben, eight months old.

As Evan leaps circles through the house squealing “3-2-1 BLASTOFF!” Ben is agog. Seeing it turns my heart to mush, two brothers slipping into big and baby roles. Evan thinks Ben is hysterical. Ben thinks Evan is a superhero.

And I think what they say about the capacity of hearts is true, that the mathematical effect of procreation is measured not with division but with multiplication.

 

A family played tunnel in the gloom of early morning, burrowing under the duvet, the ritual. The little boy reached his hand up to grasp his daddy’s chest hair, and said with great conviction:

Bird’s nest. Daddy’s bird’s nest.

And we were speechless.

New ritual: morning cuddles. Justin weaves through piles of laundry in the early morning darkness, retrieves The Boy with his inevitably icy feet, tousled and disoriented but already rattling a stream of greetings and tall tales.

We strip him to the flesh and tuck him between us under what must seem to him like mountains of toasty, downy fluff, and we chat, and we giggle, and Justin and I steal warm, squishy handfuls of groggy Boy. We hide together from the day until the light breaks through the curtain.

This morning from deep under the sheets he chimed, “Mama! A BUS!” (That’s my cue, you see.) “Evan, do you see a bus?” He pauses. “No,” he says authoritatively, like I’m nuts. Of course there’s no bus, silly mama! I was just *imagining* a bus. Silly mama.

Peppering the multiple-pregnancy funk (on which I am determined to launch a full-scale offensive) are moments of concentrated amazement—he gives me kisses when I ask for it, demands horsie rides on daddy’s back (“AGAIN! AGAIN!”). Our chatting is intentional now, two-sided. “Evan, are you a good boy?” I ask. “Yeeeah!” he replies. We hug like monkeys, limbs all atangle. I can't help but murmur, "Mmm hmm, mmm hmm" at the deliciousness. Now, he joins me. We cling to each other and hum our love.

He farted at dinner tonight, grinned and exclaimed, “P-U!”

Heaven.

He counts. Counts! (Uuuunn – Oooooo – Feeeee – Orrrrr – Iiiive – Icksssss – Evvvvvn – Eeeehhh – Innnnne – Ennnnnn) His pointer finger is always cocked to alert our attention to: Shoes. Car. Truck. House! Apple. Elephant. All done! Up! Santa. Ho! Ho! Ho! He sings, almost constantly (Inkle Inkle Ill Sarr). He answers questions (Yeeeeaah). He thinks farting is hilarious (we should probably stop laughing).

He “kisses”.

 

He is all colour and lightness and curiosity and joy. The rough edges of his recent frustrations soften with every word, with expression, with the satisfaction that comes from speaking his mind and being understood.

We had a great Christmas, full of innumerable cousins and great-great-aunts and grammies and grampies and heaps and mountains of train sets and twizzlers and sparklers and whizz-bangers. Did I ever say we wouldn’t get carried away? We did. It’s impossible not to, knowing now what he likes (and being addicted to the fascinated absorption that comes from obliging them).

In the midst of the Best Time Ever he seeks me out, bashes a trail through the christmas morning aftermath and clambers onto my lap. Looks into my eyes, grins, throws his arms around my neck as if to say: Mama, this is the Best Time Ever. I just had to tell you. Now I go. You watch me! And I do, so proud, so blessed.

Here we are at a u-pick in Lunenburg, our home county and world capital of christmas trees, tall ships and pirates. They sell these trees on streetcorners in Manhattan for $400 apiece, proving that entrepreneurship trumps even the most carefully honed Maritime sensibilities, every time.

 

Evan, two hours late for his nap, is just about to break out into a wail, kick Justin in the head and flip over backwards to run away into the snow and slip on an iced-up mud puddle. I am squinting, because it wouldn't be a picture of me if I weren't. Justin is being a saint, because it wouldn't be a picture of him if he weren't.

And all of us unintentionally sport matching puffy vests - because the family that dresses together... what? Gets beat up on the playground together? Touch-eh.

Alright. It’s settled. I have decided not to sell my toddler on Craigslist.

First report card: Evan is a sweet, gentle boy. He is so inquisitive, loves anything with wheels, and loves to sing.

<What?> Loves to sing.

What do you mean, he ‘loves to sing’? He doesn’t sing. I’m his mother. I should know. He’s not even talking yet, aside from NO! and WOW! and the requisite mama/dada.

Good god. Does he sing?

The other day we walked hand-in-hand to the wharf in search of dried-up mussel beds to crunch underfoot and to scramble in dinghys beached for winter. As we strolled I tried them all: row row row your boat, twinkle twinkle little star, itsy bitsy spider. All the standards, to no avail. He listened politely, gripping my fingers through his mittens, staring at his boots.

Then, I struck gold: Old MacDonald. His head snapped to attention, and he hummed along until the chorus, when he.. well, see for yourself.

Knocked off my feet that he has talents unbeknownst to me. He soaks up the world under the stewardship of other people, and brings it back to show me with his own twist. Magic.

Our new neighbours think us not far from child abusers, politely declining candy for Evan. But the door-knocking and doggy-answering and twinkling orange lights and jack 'o lanterns and spooky noises - not to mention the being out after dark - were more than enough thrills for this cowpoke.

 

 

He now scrambles into playschool yelling HIYA! HIYA! to squeals of IT'S EVAN! IT'S EVAN! from his little buddies. Can you bottle pride? If you could, I'd be rich.

You can tell about a person by the way they tackle a cob.

They may be fastidious in their munching: single-minded and linear. Or uninhibited: the finger-lickers. Repressed: the ones who tiptoe to the compost with the slimy, discarded remains at arms’ length as though it’s a blockage of bathtub drain gunk. Guilt-ridden: the ones who sneak extra salt when they think no one’s looking. And the category to which I belong, those with delusions of invincibility: the ones who use corn as a mere platform for melted butter gluttony, to the revulsion of every other sensible, artery-informed dinner companion at the table.

(Don’t even get me on lobster. I’ll guess the state of your love life, your mental health and your religion.)

From time to time, parents are overcome with wildly optimistic conclusions about the future lives and attributes of their children. Ahh! Look, whispered my friend in awe as she beheld her 3-year-old daughter in her first ponytail. She’ll be a prima ballerina.

We’re corny because we’re in love. If we could, we’d read the back page of our kids first, just to be sure it’s a happy ending. That’s why we spend so much time observing and speculating. We’re looking for hints of the good judgement, street smarts and dedication that we wish we had more of when we were young and unspoiled.

Ahh! Look, I think to myself. Look at him with his first cob of corn. He’ll be fearless and inventive, just like his dad. You can just tell.

It is springtime, after all. And springtime brings new things: french fries, skiing, apple juice with soda bubbles, elevators, hotel hallways, flirty waitresses, running, big-boy longjohns and see-through stairs. Who needs toys when the world is so terrific?

We tickle and chase, peek and boo. He requires less attachment but more diplomacy, having learned the meaning and application of Being Irate, Denying Permission and Listening Selectively. In protest (usually upon removal from Fun), he is now more rigid, more limp and more ear-splitting.

It still cracks us up, the force of his drama. How is it possible, in a realm dominated by explainable physics, that his weight triples during extrication? Toddler magic.