For the last few moments, I was staring at the computer screen, fairly uncertain of what I wanted to write … and then a small child’s head popped up from behind my computer screen, smiling and holding a small blue doll that may or may not have been a strange looking miniature Cabbage Patch Doll.
I work in a generally lax environment. I wear jeans on a regular – nearly daily – basis, and today, I’m even rocking a glittered green camoflauge pair of Roos (you know, the sneakers with pockets on the side that were way awesome in the ’80s).
And yes, there have been a few occasions where I’ve snuck my dog through the back door and allowed her to run around the office as I finished up some work at 7 p.m. on a Wednesday night, but she rarely pees on the carpet – only once that I can count – and aside from a small mishap of jumping on top of my desk and sliding off, riding my desk calendar all the way to the floor, she causes little trouble.
But small children? They not only have the quick-moving legs and high energy that my puppy also shares, running around the office as if it’s a marathon for those under 3-feet tall, but they have the ability to talk and annoy … and I’m saying all of this as an adorable, but way too energetic four-year-old races back and forth through the newsroom desks on a rolling chair, yelling “weeeeeee” the entire time.
Wee-girl is the product of an advertising agent who is currently in the room next door, undoubtedly with her 8-month-old infant sitting in her lap, cooing and drooling, still unable to gallivant through the office while her older sister glides her way from one end to the other with little to no disregard for my blogging working. (…Wee-girl just ambushed another chair and knocked it over, then gave me a look of death when I said, “you gotta pick up the chair.”)
Okay, perhaps I’m not actually doing anything work-worthy, but they don’t know that. They have no clue that as I sit here, quickly typing away, I’m ranting about their small children (Did I mention the infant just began to cry? ‘Cause she did…loudly.) and how the sounds pierce my eardrums and send me into a downward spiral, swearing I’ll never, ever miss a birth control pill or subject others – especially at work – to my spawn once I hit 35 and the internal clock I’m clearly not yet in tune with begins to die a little and some poor soul emerges from my loins.
…Argh, way too much information, I’m sure – so my apologies to those still reading.
It’s not as though I don’t want to see how adorable Wee-girl’s new haircut is or the new tooth poking its way through your infant’s cotton-candy colored gums; it’s just, I’m only 23 and the idea of children still terrifies me inside, so when the products of your hot and heavy evenings at home with the hubby begin disrupting my blogging work, I tend to clench my jaw a little, force a smile, ignore your children and squeeze my thighs together as tightly as possible, vowing to never have sex again.
And damn it, I really do like sex. So please, please, keep the youngin’s away or else – and forgive me for saying this – I might have to sacrifice them to some god I’m not yet aware of just so I can get it on at night without the worries of producing yet another child that will inevitably disturb my blogging work.
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