I remember a warm September day at the playground 22 years ago. I was there with my 19-month-old daughter and newborn son. Zack was hungry, so I sat down on a bench to nurse him — but every time I got him settled, Michaela ran away from me. Far away, out-of-view away (she was a quick little thing). The playground was fenced in, but there were lots of ways for a toddler to get hurt there.
Finally, a lovely woman with a preschooler came over and offered to watch Michaela so that I could feed Zack. I was beyond grateful. I nearly cried.
If it were now instead of 22 years ago, I wonder, would someone offer to help — or would they call child protective services instead, saying that I wasn’t watching my toddler?
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