The playground is already busy at 8 a.m. on Saturday. It?s the only early morning activity in my otherwise quiet and sleepy residential neighbourhood. My daughter loves the swings and I try to take her every weekend. At 10 months, she?s still small for the infant swing, but it?s endearing, almost like she?s wearing a gigantic rubber diaper over her crisp bright yellow onesie with black and white zebras on it and a matching sun hat.  I push her with one hand and with the other, sip a latte from the local coffee shop. As she swings back and forth, a giant smile spreads across her face revealing six tiny teeth and then, with a kick of her legs, she yells out in excitement. After almost five years of trying to conceive before being successful, this simple morning weekend routine is one of my greatest joys of motherhood. I?m so engaged in the moment that I barely notice as another woman pushes a stroller towards us, unbuckles the baby in it with confidence and plops him down in the infant swing to the left of my daughter. Her baby looks a few months older than mine, although maybe he?s just a big baby. Our babies begin swinging in unison and it reminds me of when I was a little girl swinging side by side with my best friend, joking that we were ?married? and then ?divorced? once we fell out of sync. The woman who appears to be the little boy?s mother suddenly looks around the playground, almost frantically, searching for and confirming the safety of another child. Then she look...