Babiez.

As I write this, there is somewhat of a commotion happening about 10 meters from my desk. A tightly packed circle of people chat loudly, alternately cooing and laughing awkwardly in unison. The women have two varieties of smiles plastered on their faces: the knowing smile and the “will this ever be me?” smile- the one I like to call the Sad Clown (this one’s more prevalent, in case you were wondering). The men stand on the outer rims of the circle, chests puffed like overfed pigeons, hands dug deep into trouser pockets, trying to pass off their smirks for genuine emoting. In the middle stands a woman: brunette hair blown out, healthy looking, and all smiles. She has the distinct look of a woman who used to toil in the trenches amongst us but has left it behind for morning walks through Tribeca and afternoons at Stella McCartney. She is carrying something- it's very tiny. Everyone's focus is on her. Wait why do the guys look even more awk than usual?

Oh that's right: she has brought her baby into the office.

“How old?” they’ll murmur in unison.

“13 weeks!” She’ll reply, because new moms always report their baby’s age in some obscure time frame that forces one to divide by 4. (I’ve never understood this by the way. 72 weeks! 17 months! What the fuck, does getting knocked up somehow change how we tell time?! Do you tell her husband to be home for dinner at 2100 hours?! Inquiring minds and all that.)

“Ooh, you must be not be getting much sleep!” another new mom will throw out.

Which of course garners a blank stare because she has a nanny, silly pleb. And onward and upward.

Then of course there’s the whole issue of tearing oneself apart from the pack. Because “Daddy” is taking full advantage of this opportunity to squeeze in a conference call, one has no option but to oblige his time with the obligatory worship of his wife and child. It’s simply not an option to leave first lest you be marked a detached psychopath. Which, naturally, I am. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids. I could eat that little fucker for lunch with some Cape Cod chips and a Diet Coke. But it’s too early in the effing morning to fake being agreeable (I have to harness all the fake niceties I have for important shit, like dates).

Oh god…what did I tell you. Now the little babe is crying. Not so fun anymore, is he?

No, he isn’t. So don’t mind if I just sit here instead, plotting my next cigarette break, thanking God for birth control.