Dear no sense of personal space,

Sure. Go ahead and touch my swollen belly without asking for permission. The baby you’re fawning over is actually situated below my belly button.

Hope you enjoyed fondling my “maternal stores” and large intestine.


Dear gushing prejudice,

What exactly do you mean by saying Eryn “takes after her father?”

Now, I understand you “absolutely adore mixed children” — but I just wanted to take a moment to outline some pretty obvious things to those who really care about my family.

She has my hair and makes my facial expressions when feeling intelligent and self-assured. Those shrugging shoulders when she doesn’t know the answer? Yeah, that’s from me. And I’m pretty sure her shifty eyes when she’s up to something is from me too.

Her gorgeous cheek bones and eye shape look like they’ve come from her paternal grandmother. And her chin? That’s straight from her aunt. Her amazing eye colour is her own. It’s a bit too early to say whose feet, hands, legs or waist she’s growing into, so I’m not 100% sure what you mean by ‘takes after her father’…

Oh. Wait. You mean she has his skin colour.

Classy. So thrilled you see things in such stark, ignorant categories.


Dear misdirected, Islamophobic mutterings,

I’m an only child and spent years preferring to walk behind my parents. It seemed like a wonderful space to be at peace with my thoughts and daydreams while knowing exactly where they were at all times. You see, I had an irrational fear of getting lost. The only other place I’d rather be when walking with my parents would be swinging between them.

But when I wanted solitude, I walked alone two feet behind them.

I did the same when walking with friends on sidewalks. I’d always triangulate behind so we could all walk together — but I could distance myself mentally from the conversation when I just wanted to window shop.

Suffice to say, I have a habit of walking behind people when I feel like it.

So when I’ve carried my child and my arms are burning and I’m suffering from round ligament pain with every step and I just want five bloody minutes to myself without blowing a snotty nose or singing my ABC’s YET AGAIN, yeah, I’m going to carry the bags so the Hubby can carry Eryn.

And YES, I’m going to walk two feet behind him BECAUSE I want a moment to breathe.

It is NOT because I’m a Muslim woman.

I am not THEM. I am ME.
We are from Toronto, not OVER THERE.
And my Hubby is NOT treating me like a pack horse. He’s FANTASTIC and I’m more than capable of carrying a diaper bag, some Christmas presents and opening doors my own bloody self.