A coworker brought her teeny tiny baby into the office today. He was
born about a month or two ago. I don’t really keep track. I don’t understand
why people bring their young children into the office.
Well, sure I do. It’s an adult version of show-and-tell. “Look what I
made. I’m so proud!”
Of course the females in
the department coo and gush over the little infants, sweeping them out of
Mommy’s and Daddy’s arms and fuss over them and admire the feral little
creatures for what they are.
I’m sorry, it’s just not for me. I don’t care to see the human, domestic
side of my co-workers. Just show me a picture and, for godsakes, don’t bring
them in when they’re only a month old, No! They don’t look like anybody. Not
mommy, not daddy. They look like babies and I just don’t need the disruption.
I’m not terribly fond of babies. Don’t really know what to do with them except
hold them and make faces, which makes me feel ridiculous and usually causes a
look of confusion on their pinched little pusses.
I don’t know what to say to them, don’t especially care much for their
parents and regret having to make the connection that yes, she has family, too.
She’s not just a glib, pompous, and superficial striver, which is her
day-to-day persona.
Yeh, I know what you’re thinking. I have two girls of my own. I love
them deeply and I loved them as babies, just as I loved them as toddlers, and
teens. But that’s because they are mine. I never felt the compulsion to share them
with my coworkers.
They are my pride and joy. My private pride and joy. Not toys for show
and tell.
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