I talk about my kid too much

I try not to. Really. I do. But when he’s such a shining joy — and yes, he’s a pain in the butt, too — I can’t help myself. I do limit myself as much as possible, and edit 70% of what really wants to slip out of my mouth.

It’s hard to be sensitive about the fact that not everyone wants to talk about kids, just as I don’t want to listen to a blow by blow reenactment of someone’s cat’s derring do’s. I’m glad there has been a baby boom at the office, because that does give me a pretty broad base of folks I can gush to every once in a while. What amuses me to no end is the fact that nearly all of them are fathers, not mothers. I love watching their faces light up when they talk about their kids, and recount their toddler’s antics when we share the lunch counter at noon. I want to sit the guy down who leaves right at quitting time every evening to get home to his wife and twins–does he feel the glass ceiling that women have traditionally felt? I wonder.

We didn’t do bring your kid to work day this year. A very extroverted four, my child just can’t sit quietly and color while I work. He has to help. He has to be involved. I remember when I used to have to bring him along to business meetings every once in a while, when he was just three years old. It was so funny! He’d sit on the couch or the chair, his little legs dangling, a crayon in one hand and a pad of paper in the other, while his mama discussed an ad campaign with the creative director. Every once in a while, we’d here this little voice pipe up: “Yup! Uh huh! Ow, wow, sure!” as he followed along and interjected his own professional opinion.

I wonder if I’ll bring him to the office next year. At least there are old printouts of floorplans laying around everywhere. He’ll have something important to color!