Last week, I sat at home nursing a baby while my Facebook feed filled with friends' DNC celebrity encounters and pictures of history being made a mere three miles away. I felt pretty lousy about having all these damn kids. (You know, when you’re changing diapers instead of protesting for immigration reform or partying with the Foo Fighters, two children feels like a whole damn lot of offspring.)

This week, as I return to work for the first time since Pau was born, I feel awful about abandoning my precious infant who barely knows how to drink milk out of a bottle (he prefers it straight from the tap) and has never spent more than a few hours apart from his mommy.

Last week, I felt guilty about resenting my kids for keeping me from DNC activities. This week, I feel guilty about my job keeping me from witnessing every single one of my baby’s milestones.

Newborns should come with a label that reads: “Warning, this product may cause schizophrenia.“

• Joeff Davis
• Michelle Obama, "mom-in-chief"

With the Democratic National Convention upon us, I, like many of my fellow Charlotteans, also want a piece of the political pie. The thing is — I’m not a delegate, I don’t have friends in high political places, and I don’t own a business that can benefit from the influx of celebrities and journalists to our city. Plus, I’ve been so disconnected taking care of my baby for the last few months that I don’t know many details about what exactly will be going on uptown.

This all had me feeling pretty sorry for myself. That is, until I realized that the very thing that’s kept me from getting more involved in pre-DNC activities holds the key to my rubbing elbows with some of the most influential political figures of our time. I have custody over one of the most effective tools of the political trade: A cute baby with perfectly kissable chubby cheeks.

• Kiss me, Mr. President!

Oh some of you may argue that there are other, more useful tools out there: A vice-presidential candidate with a complete disregard for the facts ... false television ads designed to highlight a stereotype ... a senile Hollywood actor talking to an empty chair. But none of these things come even close to the impact of a candidate’s lips on a precious, innocent baby.

When it comes to parenting questions or decisions, I research everything ad nauseam. The search history on the Google app on my iPhone is full of things like, “mercury levels in fish and toddlers,” “2-month-old sleeping schedule,” and “how to brush my child’s teeth without having to put him in a headlock.”

I own books on breastfeeding, on gentle discipline, on the Montessori education method. I ask my mom her opinions on how to stop bedwetting and encourage vegetable eating. And I compare notes with other mothers more often than I’d like to admit. Basically, I’m constantly trying to assemble a mental child-rearing manual that’s tailored specifically to my family. However, there’s one decision I made recently without one bit of prior thought or research: I decided that my kids would share a bedroom.

Earlier this year, the Charlotte Observer had to disable the comments on its story about the first baby of 2012, a boy of Latino descent, because of their racist and hateful nature. Just this week, three Mecklenburg County commissioners presented a proposal that would count the number of undocumented students who attend CMS so that the county can, as Bill James put it, “send a bill to the Mexican government for the education of their young.” Luckily, the commissioners’ motion was struck down. But I have to tell you — as the mother of two Latino children in Charlotte, I am disturbed by the sentiment some in our community seem to have toward my kids.

• Radok
• Bill James: This man and his cronies — Jim Pendergraph and Karen Bentley — hate our children.

That article about the first baby of 2012? It didn’t mention anybody’s immigration status once. (Well, I take that back, I guess you can argue that immigration status could have been implied when the article stated that the baby was BORN IN THE UNITED STATES, which would make him — yes, that’s right — an AMERICAN CITIZEN!) It was the mere fact that the child had a Latin last name and that his grandfather called from Mexico City to offer his congratulations that led to the inappropriate and hateful comments against immigrants. They can’t fool me; those comments had nothing to do with legal immigration and everything to do with bigotry and fear.

Luki and I were watching the Olympics the other day when the news about the Sikh temple shooting came on the TV. I immediately gasped, in part because of the horrific violence, but also because I couldn’t believe I was watching footage about a mass shooting again. Luki, whom I keep forgetting is an actual, perceptive, inquisitive, human person and no longer a baby, asked me what had happened. “Um, nothing, um, just that some people got hurt,” I answered and changed the channel. “Look! It’s Dora.”

I felt awkward, embarrassed, the way parents are generally portrayed when talking to teenagers about sex. Except, I think that talking to my kids about sex is going to be a lot easier than talking to them about violence. I’ve got my sex speech prepared: Sex is a wonderful thing you should share with someone you love and are committed to. It’s a big decision that can have major consequences. Make sure you’re safe. Violence, on the other hand, is much more complicated. And I think the fact that adults carry guns and use them to take others’ lives is a much dirtier, shameful truth to have to explain to my sons than that we occasionally get naked and have intercourse.

I’ve tried hard to keep violence out of Luki’s life. We don’t own any weapons, real or make-believe. He doesn’t watch any violent television. And whenever we get to the end of Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf gets put in “time out” by the hunters, not shot. Still, I can’t control the games his friends play at preschool or the scenes he sees in movies, even when they’re rated G. And I certainly can’t control the news.

It’s funny how things change. Four years ago, during the last Olympics, I kept looking up the athlete’s ages and whenever I found someone older than me — I was 24 at the time — I’d feel a silly smidgen of hope. It wasn’t too late for me! I could still be an Olympian! The fact that I have absolutely no athletic ability was just a minor detail.

This time around, I’ve been doing a different kind of math. According to the always reliable Yahoo! Answers, you must be at least 16 years old on an Olympic year to compete, that means that both, Luki and Pau can go to the 2028 games. Now it’s just a matter of figuring out which sport they’ll be winning gold in.

• Pau showing off his swimmer's bod / Luki perfecting his fencing skills

This is my first time watching the Olympics as a mother, so I’ve been paying close attention to the footage of the athlete’s parents and it’s got me thinking: How much of a role has their parenting style played in getting their kids there?

I know that these kids’ folks have made tremendous sacrifices. The countless hours watching their children compete, the money spent on their training and equipment, the driving back and forth to different gyms and tournaments have all, undoubtedly, contributed to their offspring’s success. But, what about what they say to their kids? How they treat them? It takes a whole lot of confidence to be 16 years old, do a back flip off a balance beam in front of the whole world, and stick the landing. How have these parents instilled that kind of confidence? Are they responsible for planting the seed of competition in their children? Do they actually tell their kids that they are the best so that they can go out and be the best?

You know that expression, “unless you’ve been living under a rock... ”? I feel like it could easily be substituted by, “unless you’ve been living with a newborn” and mean the exact same thing. Seriously, some days I don’t even step out unto my front porch. I’m not much of a TV watcher and haven’t quite mastered the art of nursing while surfing the Web, so I’m pretty clueless when it comes to current events. I say this to say, don’t invite me to your next party ... all I’ll talk about is poop.

The other day, however, I showered(!) and left the house to run a few quick errands. While driving, I caught the tail end of a story on NPR about Marissa Mayer, Yahoo!’s new CEO. The radio host said something like, “So, in a way, the pregnancy is the least of her problems...” On the way back from my outing I, again, heard a different radio host mention that Yahoo! had a new, pregnant CEO. At this point, I checked my radio dial to make sure I was indeed listening to National Public Radio and not one of the gossip stations. Maybe Tony had messed with my car radio since Pau was born? Nope, that was All Things Considered alright.

Why was this woman’s pregnancy national news? Why was the host assuming that the pregnancy would be a “problem”? And would we even be having this discussion if the new CEO was an expectant dad?

This warranted some googling (sorry, Marissa!).

When I first heard that a three-month-old was one of the victims of the Batman movie shooting, my first reaction was to say to Tony, “Oh my God, whyyyy was there a three-month-old at the movies? At midnight? What is wrong with some parents???” My husband nodded in agreement, he didn’t understand what business a baby had at the movies either.

However, as I’ve thought about it further, I’ve come to a completely different realization: I have no business judging those parents.

I can’t believe that, two kids later, I still jump to the same initial conclusions about bad parenting that I did four or five years ago. At least now I’m wise enough to catch myself and recognize when I’m being Judgy McBitch.

1. He's a tease: During his first week home, Pau slept for four hour stretches at night and hardly cried during the day. I bragged to anyone who would listen about what an easy baby he was and thanked my lucky stars that he was so different from baby Luki. Oh, how wrong I was! These days Pau is waking up every two hours at night and cries inconsolably whenever he's awake and not attached to my breast. Basically, he only has three settings: 1. awake and feeding, 2. awake and screaming, 3. asleep (but never for more than two hours at a time)

2. He consistently saves his biggest poops for the 2 a.m. diaper change: Look, I'm not even going to complain about getting pooped and peed on during the day when we are fully conscious and can react swiftly, but it's a low blow to attack us when our guard is down and our eyes are semi-closed. The worst part is that he also has his eyes closed and remains unperturbed by our disgusted moans and groans.

3. He refuses to let me eat: Maybe it's his way of helping me lose the baby weight, but whenever I sit down to try to get some nourishment into my body, baby Pau starts screaming and does not stop until one of my boobs is in his mouth. Even if he's asleep and in another room, even if I just fed him, even if all I'm trying to eat is a cheese cracker, he always starts crying.

4. He behaves for grandma: If my mother could have a signature expression, it would be, "you're doing it wrong," so it's pretty annoying that whenever Tony or I are unsuccessfully trying to soothe or burp baby Pau and she intervenes, he immediately cooperates. It's like he revels in making us feel inadequate.

5. He's too cute to stay mad at: I mean, really, who could with a smile like this?

Last week, as I nursed Pau with one hand and messed with my phone with the other, I was delighted to see my Facebook stream blowing up with President Obama's announcement that his administration will stop deporting young undocumented immigrants. As an immigrant who was brought to the U.S. by my parents when I was nine years old, this issue is particularly important to me. My family and I were lucky enough to never lose our status in this country and have now become American citizens; but that's all we were: lucky. We didn't do anything special, we didn't "stand in line" like the opponents of immigration reform so ignorantly suggest (there is no line, by the way), we were just fortunate to emigrate from Cuba and automatically receive political asylum when we entered the United States. But I wonder, would my parents have done the same thing if we had been born in Guatemala or El Salvador? Would they have brought my brother and I to this country even if a path to citizenship wasn't guaranteed?

Yes. If they believed that coming to the U.S. was the best thing for our future, then yes, I think they would have brought us no matter what.

And what about me? I've been thinking about this long and hard since Obama's announcement. What if my children were born in a place where they didn't have access to healthcare, where there was no chance for them to get a decent education, where I couldn't provide for them financially no matter how hard I tried? What if they were born in a place where they weren't free to speak their mind or vote in a democratic election? Would I bring them across the border? Would I come to the United States even if it meant living here under the threat of deportation?

Yes. Absolutely. I would do it too because I also want what's best for my kids, no matter what.

And the thing is, these kids are what's best for our country. These kids whose parents have sacrificed so much to bring them here are going to be willing to make sacrifices to stay here, whether it's by excelling in school or joining the army or contributing to the economy through hard work. These kids know how lucky they are to live here, not just abstractly, but because they have something else to compare it to. These kids love and are loyal to this country, not because of chance, but because of choice. And these kids would never, in a million years, heckle the president during a press conference.

All they needed was a chance and I'm so glad President Obama has given it to them.