The other day, one of my coworkers bought his new (well, new-ish) baby to work. There was much oohing and aahing. One of my colleagues, who has children, turned to another one, who, ditto, and said: “Aren’t all babies cute?”
Note: She didn’t say it to me. Maybe because she sensed that I would have had to squelch my real feelings and mumble tortured agreement. Because all babies aren’t cute. In fact, most babies aren’t cute. Children may be cute. They have personalities and, you know, facial features. Babies are round balls of bodily fluid and need.
Do I sound bitter? I suppose so. There’s been a pronounced uptick in babymaking among my officemates. To clarify, I’m fine with that. I mean, I think my ambivalence about children comes through loud and clear. And I don’t begrudge my coworkers their extracurricular activities (i.e., I like sex, too). What I suppose I do resent is this parading around of infants like some sort of trophy. You got pregnant — big whoop. I’ve been on birth control since I was a teenager, and no one is patting me on the back for my many successive years of not getting knocked up.