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.

The headlines these days... alarming, aren't they? Madness and carelessness and arrogance and an over-abundance of self-obsessed nutjobs. We're at the brink of something. Or past it. People and countries so alienated and marginalized that the attention they crave can only be captured with threats and deviousness and hatred and stockpiling.

I can't imagine that this will turn out alright. I'm sorry to say it, but that's the truth. There's too much of the stuff out there, more than we can even comprehend (most of it parked right next door in the U.S.) waiting for accidents or the wrong hands or a moment of indulgent rage.

The majority of adults become parents. We go through this universally human journey together, millions of individuals feeding their babies, laughing at the first fart, spinning with joy at every giggle. How is it that we don't we have the preciousness and fragility of life burned onto our brains and hearts? How is it that the most fundamentally shared life experiences don't guide our actions?

I see the latest Al-Qaeda video on the news (for the love of Christ, WHY do they keep broadcasting these guys?) and hear hysterical war declarations from North Korea (before I lunge for the radio's off-button quicker than an ostrich on fire). And strangely, I don't feel anger. I feel pity.

Dysfunction makes people do dangerous and hateful things. Anyone with such a twisted heart... they can't have had a happy life, with love and adventure and education and family and free will and friendships. Am I wrong to make that assumption? Maybe. But it's the only logic I can understand.

I’d like to take Kim Jong-il for a ride on the Scrambler at a Bill Lynch fair. I’d like to have him at Milford House for a weekend, knock him out of bed at 5:30 AM for a sunrise canoe paddle through the rapids at Gang Run and then for a mile-high stack of pancakes and hot tea at the lodge. He should smell the air in the fall, in Nova Scotia. Earthy and salty and sweet-smokey.

I’d like to bring Osama to the Hubbards Market, show him my son bopping to the fiddles. I’d like to bring him to the Lunenburg Folk Music Festival, give him a greasy bag of fish & chips, stomp and cheer for the finale under the mainstage tent. Fill them and their like up to the brim despite themselves. Bombard them with hospitality and beauty in ordinariness.

Likewise, I’d like to send George W. off on an indefinite tree-planting stint in Northern Ontario. Hard work and a mouthful of blackflies to wipe that smug, shit-eating grin off his face. Then I’d turn American so I could vote for Barack Obama. Right after I get my first tan and win a million bucks and figure out how to time-travel.

Fellow infidels: what would you do with Mortal Enemy, given a weekend to make good?

Lord, I love the dig. And I’m not the only one.

I have a method, an approach plan. Toss all the pinks aside; watch for interesting fabric. It’s usually attached to the holy grail: the Good Label. Eureka! A teeny-tiny kung-fu outfit. A suede cowboy vest with a fringe. Endless 70s-era t-shirts. A handmade puffy cordouroy jacket. Retro toques with giant pom-poms. And bottomless Gap, Old Navy, Stride-rite, exotic European brands, all givens, some never worn, topping out at about a buck apiece.

Frenchy’s is a maritime phenomenon, well-loved and documented. There’s at least one in almost every small rural town—Bridgewater is enormous, the Coldbrook twins own Halloween, Windsor is hot and cold, Sackville is a hidden gem. We’re excursionists. We take an afternoon and hit half a dozen, once every few months (station wagon required).

People elsewhere think they know secondhand, but they don’t. Not until they know Frenchy’s—and score the kind of haul that gets taken home in a garbage bag, bursting at the seams.

I am a treasure-hunter, the third generation of Robson women who troll the bins. Still squeamish? Behold the prize of vintage plaid and shearling.

Thanksgiving weekend. Blinding, soul-cleansing sunshine, frost on the grass in the morning, woodsmoke thick in the air. Kitchen counters are heavy with squash and gourds and pumpkin and swiss chard and soft, buttery market brioche and all goodness. I bake pumpkin spice cookies with brown butter icing while cranberry sauce simmers on the stove, filling the house with gingery, nutmeggy warmth.

Epic domesticana restores me. The ritual and hospitality of daylong roasting, pastry-rolling, wine and yumminess, indulgence, contentment. Full bellies and unbuttoned pants and tucking in for winter.

One of the old farts who hangs out at the Hubbards Save-Easy shook his head disapprovingly as Evan and I hopped towards the grocery carts one sunny afternoon.

“What is she, a little girl?” he grumbled as we approached.

“Actually, yes,” I replied, in my dreams. “Isn’t she the most adorable little butch you’ve ever seen? I’m training her to be the most famous drag king performer on the south shore. We’re going to be rich.”

Kids are public domain (so says Joe Public). That’s why—even when Evan is wearing his ‘YES INDEED, I HAVE A JIGGER’ t-shirt—passerby insist on making roundabout comment on his lack of crewcut by pretending to question his gender.

Even his closest fans seem perturbed. His grandfather mutters "sneak" and "barber" under his breath conspiratorially, and his great-grandmother remains in a constant state of incredulity when it comes to all matters of personal grooming.

Friend: Have you ever cut it?
Me: Sure, tons of times.
Friend: In the back?
Me: Sure. It just grows really fast.
Friend: Really?
Me: Uhh.. yes.

Following is an itemized list of all the definitive explanations for Evan’s appearance, arranged in order of statistical relevance and qualitative importance:

1) Because I Like Him That Way.

Hello. My Name is Kate, and I am Very Picky Particular in all matters aesthetic. There. I admit it. Evan will never be Beaver Cleaverized, fashioned into a miniature businessman circa 1952. Not to knock the croppers in our ranks—to each his mother’s own. But is a flat top in our near future? Not unless I run out of scouring pads and need to improvise with my kid’s head.

I’m of the shaggy persuasion. That’s all. I can’t explain why I like it that way. It has to stick out the back of his hat. It just does, or it’s not Evan.

The next person who asks if he’s a girl is getting the truest answer I can give on his behalf: Hey, hey. He’s a Monkee.

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.