Whose child is it anyway?
"He's so cute! How old is he?" She asks me as I try to seem casual as I get up to collect my crawling infant across the doctor's rooms for the umpteenth time. I smile, "Nearly eleven months". At this moment my son turns his head, bats his baby blues and starts opening and closing his mouth like a fish, and finishes it off with a giggle. "He's hungry," an older woman protests, "You need to give him his bottle," I smile and say that he's not hungry and is just playing. "Besides I don't have a bottle, I'm the milk," I say. "Still?" Rewind a few months: I'm carrying my son whilst walking through a shopping mall. An elderly woman seems to be making a beeline straight for me, and I'm quite surprised at how agile she is at navigating the crowds to get to me. Once she's within a close enough distance she yells, "You!" Pointing her finger in my direction, I double check to see if it is...