When ever I look at a new mother and child, there are many idle thoughts run through my head.

Most of the time however, my thoughts are harsh and critical. Hardly sympathetic.

For example, two days ago, I saw a teen mother, barely 18, walking down the sidewalk like there was no-one who could stop her. In one hand, she texted away on brand-new latest edition cell phone and tapped her outragously long french manicured claws on its screen, and in the other, a cigarette burned, wafting its fumes around the stroller she pushed. Her face was masked with poorly matched make-up, and her hair was a pale bleached blonde with red regrowths, tied in a messy bun atop her head. Her dress was nothing more than a skimpy pink cloth that barely hid her ample breasts that were meant to feed her child.

When I look at her, I see a younger girl, who made a mistake maybe 2 years ago. She had no maturity, no-one to teach her how to raise another human being. I see her stuck with the unpleasant side of a young relationship, and observe her unfortunate circumstance.

And yet, I still hate her in every essence, but I don't even know her.

But that isn't the worst of it. Her toddler sits in a stained baby stroller, the straps that are meant to secure him in are tossed carelessly over the sides, where they drag and drag against the floor, almost like this child is the one being pulled ruthlessly against the dirty pavement. The child is crying, and it looks like he's been crying for most of his life, because when I look at him, I see new and old scabs along his legs, his nose running like a tap, the clothes on his back stained wet from saliva. Then the odor hits my nose, and I know that this mother has not changed his diaper.

And the only thing I can think at that moment is, damn, I feel sorry for that kid.

I pity the baby more than anything, because it is almost like he's crying out desperately for his mother to notice him. But she is so caught up in her own little world that he is just like a muted television, seen and not heard.

I watch the pair while she pushes that stroller down the sidewalk and hope that one day, someone will come to save that kid. He wails louder now, probably hungry, or wanting to be changed out of his diaper.

Then that mother does something that makes my blood boil, and I suddenly wish I had the courage to get up and smack that stupid ho, or at least call child services.

She sighs theatrically, spins the stroller to face her with an angry twist of her wrist, almost making the baby fall out of his carrier, and shouts:

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Her voice is thick with a smokers' rasp, and I watch in shock and horror as she brings a firm hand down on his little scarred legs, and slaps him. The child is then too overcome with all of this, that he cannot even cry, just make quick, startled little gasps that you get when you cry too much.

The woman curses again, whirls the stroller around and walks back to where she came from.

When I think of this moment from two days ago, I realise that the woman had no experience on how to raise a baby, and it was likely that she didn't know all he wanted to was to be clean, or comfortable, or have food in his stomach, or even just to be close to the one that brought him into the world. But still, how could you do that to your child? He listens, and learns just like any other child, from his parents. If he has no father, then his mum is the one he needs. So what is he going to be when he grows up?

And that is exactly what I'm afraid of. As long as he is with her...

...he's literally going nowhere.