“Put that down. Put. That. Down!� I am currently pleading (sternly) with a four year-old. She is dangling a cup of water over the top of a five-hundred dollar scanner. She is not my child so I can’t grab her little arm and wrench the paper cup from her. Instead I hold my notebook under the cup and lift until the cup is propped on the notebook. The kid is fascinated by this and wants to hold the notebook with the cup on top.

Her older sister is sprawled over the surface of the nearby desk, doing her best to reach the markers on the next desk and crumple the papers beneath her at the same time. She’s a multi-tasker. Where the hell are these children’s parents? The mother is up having an appointment regarding the yet-unborn child that will surely end up in my office too. A man, my co-worker, quite sane and reasonably normal, walks into the office and screams at the top of a falsetto voice ‘Pagey!’ The four year-old answers with a falsetto scream, the older sister stops her sprawling to join in. All is joyful falsetto’s at the top of their lungs. Yes. This is the father.

Markers, colored paper, flung rubber bands, and miscellaneous toys are everywhere. There is a tin robot (very cool) running amok around the desks, making robot whirring noises. The phone is ringing and I can’t hear what the woman is asking me. I suddenly realize that the report that I’ve been running recall letters from is difficult to read because the toner is low, not only that, the two-hundred pages of recall letters I’ve just run are illegible and therefore worthless. I’d ordered a new toner cartridge but haven’t received one.

I leave the chaos to go get a toner from Materials. They tell me that they delivered it. Arguing the issue reveals that they actually delivered a different cartridge they believed would work the same, but didn’t feel the need to tell me about it. Back in the den of chaos I locate the pseudo toner among the forty boxes scattered about the office and wielding a pair of scissors I cut it open to find that no, it does not fit. Big surprise.

The happy falsetto family is communicating everything at the top of their lungs. The children feel the need to say ‘dad’ five times before he’ll respond. I have to do that too, so I don’t blame them, though I say ‘Josh’, not dad. They have a conversation about how a particular sucker that the four year-old found tastes like poop. Then accuse each other of potty mouth, without the irony.

Taking out my aggression on the original toner yields several smudge free pages. The older sister wants my chips, her father does too, but reprimands her for asking. The four year-old is under the desk eating something that she found there. The father is now on the phone yelling directions on how to turn off a computer. The older sister decides to sing. My boss walks into the room, blissfully free of stress and wearing a new tie. “She’s doing good!� He yells at me.

“What?� I yell.

“She’s doing good!� He bellows, nodding his head at me. “I wanted to ask you something.�

“’Kay, what?� I yell.

“She’s… doing… good!� He screams.

I’m ready to punch him but then he sees my face and turns to the older sister, “My daughter is doing good!�

“Ask me something.� I dare him.

“I need you to sort this report!â€? He hollers, and goes to the printer. “Looks like we’re out of toner, didn’t you order a new one? Ooh, can I have some chips?â€?

The silly thing, I still want kids. My coworker just had a baby, she’s nearly two months now and I spent all of yesterday morning holding her while I worked, the baby, not the coworker. This afternoon I got a call from a gal in our Day Surgery who asked if I was pregnant yet and then informed me that I only had a month left. “Till what?” I asked confused. “Till you have to start practicing.” She said, as though everything up till now had been smoke and mirrors. Maybe that’s why my loving husband is always horny. “You have to do it soon.” The gal said, as though my biological clock had taken matters into its own hands a physically manifested itself with bleach blonde hair and access to a phone.

But look at the sweet kids, like Taylor and Deklin. And even the two kids that were here today are good kids, they just need volume controls. And really, who is going to take care of me in my old age?

The four year-old is climbing the bookcase. She’s making it pretty high up too considering that the shelves are crammed with scanners and keyboards. “There isn’t any more paper up there.” I inform her. “Ack, don’t step on the router.”

“Say sorry Pagey.” The father sings in falsetto.

“Say sorry Pagey.” The older sister sings in falsetto.

“Time to get down.” I say, removing the child from the bookcase and plopping her in a chair.

My boss walks in, new tie swinging. “Say what?” he asks. “Can I have some more chips?”

Posted by Emilie in Work