Friday, May 06, 2005
Be A Child At Work Day
Sometimes my coworker brings her children to work. These are the best days, because instead of sitting at my desk attempting to formulate a good legal definition of metal retardation or reading about the latest developments in the Eritrean cabinet, I get to run cubicle races (I usually let the five year old win, but it’s still a great workout) or design paper airplanes (turns out the librarians really don’t like being struck in the face with little eraser pilots). Sometimes, if we’re really good, mom even lets us have a little bit of candy.
I’ve realized that people either have the ability to talk to kids or they don’t. I have some friends who speak to a toddler exactly the way they’d address their pastor or the General Assembly of the United Nations, and it’s bizarre. Kids don’t really stand on formality, they probably haven’t seen the latest edition of The New Yorker, and they have no idea what to do about your marital problems. At the same time, it’s embarrassing when people treat children like tiny idiots. Even a four-year-old with a head wound can understand basic stories and instructions without exaggerated pointing and gesturing. You’re not visiting a foreign country or shooting an episode of Win, Lose, or Draw; try to allow everyone to retain their basic dignity.
Of course, I have the mentality of a child, so it’s easy for me. It was about the time that we were taking an informal office poll to see whose Play-Doh flowers were the most popular that I realized that, damn it, I really wanted to win. And I have to admit that the shrieking and giggling going on in the room weren’t entirely attributable to the children. I’d put together some compelling explanation of why it’s good for me to be "young at heart," but frankly, Sesame Street’s coming on and my attention span is just too damn short.
Sometimes my coworker brings her children to work. These are the best days, because instead of sitting at my desk attempting to formulate a good legal definition of metal retardation or reading about the latest developments in the Eritrean cabinet, I get to run cubicle races (I usually let the five year old win, but it’s still a great workout) or design paper airplanes (turns out the librarians really don’t like being struck in the face with little eraser pilots). Sometimes, if we’re really good, mom even lets us have a little bit of candy.
I’ve realized that people either have the ability to talk to kids or they don’t. I have some friends who speak to a toddler exactly the way they’d address their pastor or the General Assembly of the United Nations, and it’s bizarre. Kids don’t really stand on formality, they probably haven’t seen the latest edition of The New Yorker, and they have no idea what to do about your marital problems. At the same time, it’s embarrassing when people treat children like tiny idiots. Even a four-year-old with a head wound can understand basic stories and instructions without exaggerated pointing and gesturing. You’re not visiting a foreign country or shooting an episode of Win, Lose, or Draw; try to allow everyone to retain their basic dignity.
Of course, I have the mentality of a child, so it’s easy for me. It was about the time that we were taking an informal office poll to see whose Play-Doh flowers were the most popular that I realized that, damn it, I really wanted to win. And I have to admit that the shrieking and giggling going on in the room weren’t entirely attributable to the children. I’d put together some compelling explanation of why it’s good for me to be "young at heart," but frankly, Sesame Street’s coming on and my attention span is just too damn short.
