Evan ‘Mr. Miyagi’ Inglis has adopted the ‘wax on, wax off’ method of highchair self-defense, deflecting offending spoonfuls and washcloths alike.

A subtle but telling change has recently occurred: the discovery of cause and effect. He doesn’t say no, exactly – but he has no problem expressing it.

On the brink of his first birthday, the learning curve is boarded and ready for liftoff. Today he figured out how to play his new slide whistle, and didn’t let go of it for three hours. He’s doing his best to give a ‘kiss’, which is comprised of launching himself headlong towards the object of affection, mouth wide open, and pressing tongue against cheek. Sounds random, but it’s not: he then pulls away, looks at me and smiles. He knows.

See? I kiss you. mmmMMWAAH!

The other day while dressing him Justin said, “What stinks?” and went sniffing in search. And wonders! Turns out it was Evan’s feet. They smell. Like stinky feet. All three of us tumbled into giggles. Why is this funny? Why unexpected? Yet another one of the great mysteries of life.

Perhaps it happens during a nap, or in a house full of family, all of whom want to play. When Evan is on someone else’s watch, a switch turns off in my head.

My brain says: Hey. Are we alone? We could shower. Or eat. Or sleep. But let’s not. Let’s make a pot of hot tea, and read a book. No, a magazine. Let’s not be social. Let’s not cook, unless it’s indulgent. Let’s untwist. Please, please, please?

The irresistible pull of open-mouthed-breathing downtime can only be understood by other parents. All time to oneself is stolen, and is therefore highly precious.

You are owned by another, by one who grants packets of rest like crunchy biscuits or spoonfuls of peanut butter to a well-behaved golden retriever. You treasure it, guard it, shovel it into your soul as quickly as you can for fear that it might be taken away: the chance to be engrossed in something that is both unnecessary, and of your own choosing.

Bits and bobs, danglers and digglers. We own Evan, nook, crease and cranny. When I need a smile, I take all his clothes off and watch him jump in his crib. Nothing but skin and a grin and boing boing boing. Instant happiness.

I stick my finger in his neck, the secret place that makes him giggle. We twiddle his Squirrel’s Nest, the soft patch of fuzz at the top of his bum.

No man's a man without a good squirrel's nest, Daddy says. And we both crack up at the sight of him scrambling away from a fresh diaper, joyful as ever to be naked and unrestrained, his cojones swinging proudly to and fro like a prize bulldog.

It’s a limited-time sight. With every year that passes he’ll be more his own, and less ours. He’ll be embarassed to pee with the door open. He’ll hide when he gets dressed. He’ll have secrets.

He’s starting to smell like a little boy, gobs of nut butter stuck in his hair and clammy sock fluff stuck between his toes. For now he is ours, an extension of our own bodies, another limb. We can peek down his pants to gauge toxicity, de-boo him and blow raspberries on his pudge.

Until the day he becomes his own, a phantom itch I wish I could scratch.

There is one final skill I have yet to master: that of dividing my brain into two simultaneously functioning parts. In conversation, my ears hear just enough to know I’m not quite catching the jist, while my face works hard at Looking Attentive. But meanwhile, the rest of my brain (aside from the small portion that operates my ears and face) is occupied with whatever my son is about to put into his mouth.

We’re an hour late with his lunch. He’s going to hit the wall any second. Wait – what’s that in his hand? Oh no, he’s about to put his face in the dog’s dish.

“No kidding! That’s so great. So what’s next for you?”

We have to get home fast. He’s going to freak when we put him in the carseat. Damn, I forgot to wash his sleeping bag. What’s he going to nap in? I wonder if he'll konk out on the way home. Oh look, he loves going up those stairs. He’s getting so strong.

“I know, I totally feel the same way. We noticed the same thing last week.”

We need to pick up some more Burt's Bees. He's all crotchy.

It’s not lack of interest. Just lack of focus. When it comes to mental multitasking, anyone other than Evan is left with the scraps from his table.

"Is it just me,” I asked Justin yesterday, “Or is everyone else suddenly from another planet?" "It’s just you," he replied. "It's both of us. Weird, isn't it?"

We're not used to being perpetually misunderstood. I see them – kidless folk – watching us with condescending pity. We take turns trailing along behind Evan on the floor, spotting him as he scurries and climbs and skidaddles, anticipating every obstacle and temptation in his path. We never sit down. We leave early, before the appetizers even come out.

How unappealing, they must think. Their lives have become so small, so confined. They can’t relax. They’re so scattered. They have to plan their day around his naps. Imagine! They can’t even carry on a normal conversation. I know that’s how I felt before Evan, seeing new parents. Thank God that’s not us! And we’d skip away, giddy with our fortunes and freedom.

Happy eleven-month birthday, kiddo. All the clichés are true: you, because you’re ours, are endlessly fascinating. We don't miss living on a whim. We had no idea you would be so much fun. The rest of the world is right: we are consumed by you. But happily, so happily.