We lurch towards toddlerhood, all three of us wide-eyed and stinky. He ponders things: I could reach that. I could eat that. I could throw that. Look! He he. I was right.

Sits on the floor and plays with his toys. Hoards fistfuls of Cheerios, curious and precious. Lunges for anything dangerous, like a magpie to christmas tinsel. It’s finally time to proof the house – a point driven home by his gleeful discovery of a paddling knife (sheathed, thank goodness) that was so easy to find it may have well have been laid out for him in his crib.

As the baby becomes the boy, I figure we have three developmental bullets to dodge, if we can manage it.

Bullying, Bratting and Biting. The trinity of bad behaviour. The kind of pushing, shoving, taunting and chomping that gets you expelled from playgroup. Of course, if your child ends up in this camp, I suppose you’d just put on your brave face and get through it, hoping to convince both yourself and the public at large of your darling diddlekin’s good heart by using words like ‘spirited’, ‘strong-willed’ and ‘orally expressive’.

Until then, I’m trying to figure out what to do when he joyfully attacks me, teeth bared, and clamps down on a finger like a dog with a bone. Do I say NO! and make an issue of it? Or extricate and ignore? At nearly nine months old, this is only the beginning. Imagine a year from now, when he can tell us to stick it.

Parenthood. It’s not just head games. It’s the Head Game Olympics.

Strappy, teeny, clicky too. How I loved a dainty shoe. You walk with a swing, feeling somehow more decadent, more female. I didn’t need a reason. I was a Career Woman.

I’d walk through Yaletown on my way to work, lovely leather bag on my shoulder, coiffed and content, vanilla steamer in one hand and croissant in the other. I was expected somewhere. I had meetings and deadlines and sushi for lunch. Sushi, lord deliver me. Tuna with mounds of fresh ginger, piping hot miso soup and endless salty edamame, never enough.

Wandering a store yesterday, I tossed aside flip-flops and slipped into a shoe of shoes past. I so would have bought these. Up the aisle, down again. Pause. Hike up the hem of jeans. Point toe, twiddle. How perfect. I’d need an occasion now, few and far between. I put them back. Goodbye, my sweets. Will we ever meet again?

Evan gets bedhead now, sticking up in all directions. His grandmother says, “You know, you could wet that and pat it down…” but I wouldn’t dare. She laughs and agrees. I adore it, along with the crudnuts that get stuck in his neck after a meal.

There were two Kates, before. The 'pretty' and the practical. Two worlds, work and life. Now there is only one, and she wears boots.

The exhausted child collapses in an untidy heap after crying himself hoarse. Up since 5 AM, you tiptoe away, whispering expletives at every creaky floorboard. You retreat to bed, determined to get back on track. As you fall asleep you contemplate the embroidery on the pillow: Gentle Sleep, Nature’s Soft Nurse.

One hour into what should be a three-hour siesta, the phone shrieks. You shoot up in bed in a panic on the fourth ring (you're done for) and the voice on the line chirps, “Not up yet? But it’s 9 AM! Wakey, wakey!” You grimace, making a mental note to bury the phone in the backyard.

Then a curious, determined oooo-WHAAA! erupts from the room next door. Nappus interruptus.

Pox, I say. Pox on them all. If someone’s drowning in front of our house and we have the only lifejacket in the province, don’t call. Try a rope first.

It's not their fault. The unexpected plumber with the bellowing voice. The garbage truck. And the universal enemy of all things peaceful: the motorcyclist. Until it’s your responsibility, your life and your sleep, you don’t get it. I didn’t.

Why are parents so anal? I’d wonder. Why do they think the whole world has to revolve around them? All they’re going to do is make their baby super-sensitive to normal household noise.

But now I’ve got one of my own, and he’s going through a The-World-Is-Way-Too-Interesting-To-Sleep phase. Every phone call, dog bark or slamming door sets off the day’s dominos. Critical 3-hour morning nap is cut short to one hour = inconsolable meltdown + one hour of crying-to-sleep for afternoon nap = nighttime wakings at 1:00, 3:00 and 5:30 AM.

My cranky self says: it's all the fault of the 9 AM knucklehead who has not yet been informed that the world revolves around our kid. My reasonable self says: this is what we signed up for. And the sight of Evan standing proudly in his crib, shaking the slats and giggling, makes me smile. Even when it's four hours too early.

I can go for weeks without BC ever crossing my mind. But then it sneaks up behind me, whispers in my ear. And I am crippled, like I’ve lost someone dear in my life.

Close to midnight, they shut down the chairlifts at Cypress. The mountain becomes itself, as a boat does when you shut the engine off and the sails take over. The trails are deserted, the wind rustles through the trees. The mountain sighs, thankful for a rest. I’d skulk at the top waiting for that moment, waiting for the whirring and clicking to end, for my solitary ski overlooking the lights of Vancouver.

Someone is at Doc Morgan’s pub on Bowen Island, drinking my cold beer.

Someone else is paddling my kayak. Someone else is living in our tiny, one-room apartment on the north shore, which I don’t mind.

But I do mind that they’re a five minute walk away from Justin’s favourite running trail along the Seymour river.

It’s not fair. The rest of Canada should step aside so that Justin and I can be closer to BC, our exciting western mistress, while remaining loyally wedded to our good maritime wife.

Remember those babies that would be dropping like crazy this fall and winter? It has begun. The air is thick with end-of-pregnancy anticipation, friends and family near and far.

We're so excited for all the moms and dads-to-be. Newbies take the leap and we move up in seniority within the cult of parenthood, by default. Second-timers are in another realm altogether.

At eight months, we finally feel seasoned. At least compared to the shell-shocked bliss and steep learning curve of the first few months. We perch Evan on our hips, wrangle him into semi-submission on the change table and don't jump out of our skins every time he makes a peep. We feel moderately competent – which is, of course, his cue to start crawling. Then the shell shock will return, along with a raging case of sharp-and-swallowable-object paranoia.

Reach, Grab and YANK. Reach, Grab and YANK. Evan’s favourite game surprises passing grocery carts, wayward ponytails and breakables alike. At least a half-dozen tiny new people will enter the world in the next while, and the frenzied growth (and grabbing) of an eight-month-old will seem light-years away for them. On seeing older babies I used to think, I can’t imagine he’ll ever be so big. And that he’ll know us, and smile at us, and have things to say.

Yet here we are. He pulls himself up to standing on the edge of the spool bed, and we gawk at each other with the same expressions of mingled pride and shock.

When a newborn exploded into our life, there were elements we didn't expect. Moments of complete serenity, sprinkled in amongst what felt like a prolonged drug trip. Stillness and perfection and awe.

Hang in there, girlfriends. Put a towel under you in bed, just in case. SPLASH!