There’s something I secretly love.

Swooping in on a gong show, some poor soul holding Evan like a pissed-off skunk in a live trap while he yells himself inside out. He sees me, eyes wide, and wails until I get close enough to rescue him. Then he melts, and all is well.

All babies bonk. They hit the wall - over-stimulated, sick of performing, numb from the carseat, in need of a quiet spot and some naked time. And regardless of the expertise of the aforementioned poor soul on watch, the only remedy is mommy and daddy.

It’s the most potent ego boost in the whole universe.

Oh, oh! Mommy! There you are! I didn’t see you. Don’t do that again, I like to see you. I am so hungry, and all these people are here staring at me and I don’t know them, and I have my cranky pants on because I’m all hot and sweaty and I just woke up and wow, you smell nice.

Can we have cuddles? Can you rub your face in my face so I can grab onto your ears so I know you can’t go anywhere? I like that because then I know you’re mine, mine all mine. I’ll bite your cheek and growl in your ear and you can growl back and I’ll like that. That’s how I know everything’s going to be okay, when I have a fistful of you.

Then a grin creeps out with a sigh, the red face eases and a wave of comfort comes over him like a shipwreck survivor landing on a familiar beach. This little person has a shocking amount of faith in me to put everything right, and without fail, it makes me feel fifty feet tall.

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.