back-seat parenting

I try hard not to back seat parent other peoples' children. It's hard enough when you haven't slept in five million years and you're having however many zillions of challenges with breastfeeding/getting them to sleep/teething without someone offering unsolicited advice. If someone asks, I'll tell them what I think, but I don't just throw my two cents in because I've been a mother for four months. I figure it takes longer than four months of doing just about anything to get good at it, so I should just hold my peace.

Most of my baby friends feel the same way. I've been very lucky to make two good friends with babies a month older than Leila. We went to prenatal yoga together and now we go to mom and baby drop in, and for walks around the neighbourhood. They are lovely, supportive, generous, kind women who I am so grateful to have in my life. We share strategies on dealing with our babies and when asked, say things like, "this worked for me." And it's been so helpful. It doesn't hurt that their babies are absolutely adorable.

That being said, not everyone feels the same way. Some people seem to feel that what they're doing with their child(ren) is the right thing and everyone else should be following them. This makes me ridiculously angry. Mostly, I feel like jumping up and down like a little kid and saying, "that's not fair, I don't do this to you, why are you doing it to me?" Furthermore, I'm not stupid and I love my child. This means I would not do anything to put her in harms way, which I thought people would respect. So in conclusion dear internets, if you think maybe you should tell me I'm doing something wrong, don't. Unless you're a nurse or a mother of three.

postcolonial angst

There's a native family that lives on the ground floor of my building. It's hard to tell exactly how many of them live in the one bedroom apartment as there seems to be a constant stream coming and going through the broken living room window. Yesterday, as I was putting the girl into the car, I counted five adults and seven children getting out of a purple minivan with an Ed Hardy steering wheel cover. The youngest, who couldn't have been more than three was wearing only a diaper, no shoes. I noted this mass exodus from the van with mild amusement. Sure it's not safe, but it's not really the end of the world, and I'm educated. I've read Frans Fanon. I have a lot of postcolonial guilt that I don't know where to put, so when I'm presented with situations like this I try to blame myself, not them.
Later that evening, Tom and I were getting ready to go out, putting the car seat in the car. Our building's parking lot is at the back by the dumpster, and the aforementioned family's window backs onto the parking lot.  There were three little boys belonging to the family playing on some discarded (and probably bedbug ridden) mattresses by the dumpster. They were four or five years old, none of them were wearing shoes, their faces were streaked with dirt and snot and they kept finding these huge rocks to hurl at each other. Eventually, one of them went flying off the mattress and crashed on the pavement and burst into hysterical tears. After what seemed like an eternity, some adult emerged through the broken window and picked him up, but not before Tom had had the chance to lean over to Leila and say, "you're not allowed to play with those boys." 

I couldn't say that I disagreed. Almost all of my wanted to pick them up and throw them into a hot bath and hug them, but at the same time, I don't advocate taking children away from their families. Their culture. The only thing I've really learned about babies in my three months of being a mother is that kids need a lot of love, an infinite, seemingly insatiable amount of love, and from what I could see, those kids weren't getting it. As we were pulling out of the parking lot I was reminded of the line from Ezra Pound's "The Garden" where he talks about, "the filthy, study, unkillable infants of the very poor. / They shall inherit the earth."