There is no place for your kids in this office.

Playgrounds, daycare centers, schools, the McDonald's ball pit, the zoo.

There. I just thought of five places off the top of my head where your kids could be that are NOT the office where I'm trying to work. Those are the places where it's acceptable for the little moppets that you and your spouse conceived during that time when you could still talk about things other than diaper bags and C-section incisions to run around and go apeshit. Those are the places where your precious little darlings can poop themselves with the joy and reckless abandon of an 88-year-old Alzheimer's patient.

Where they shouldn't be, however, is anywhere near my cubicle. Why? Because -- now, hold on to your ass, because I'm about to say something that will shock the shit out of you -- the only person who thinks your kids are hopelessly adorable is you.

What?! I know, dear co-worker, I could hardly believe it myself. OH WAIT -- yes I could, because those little fuckers are annoying as shit and all I want in the world is for them to stay far, far away from me when I'm happily clacking away on my computer, doing the various things our company pays me to do. And let me remind you -- our company is paying you too. So stop bringing your kid here and wasting company time while everyone ogles your spawn. Don't you have something to file?

Oh, your precious little darling just wants to give me a smiley face sticker? No. Go fuck yourself, kid -- I haven't had my coffee yet and I don't want to touch your sticky fingers. AND WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS STICKY, ANYWAY?! Don't your parents fucking WASH YOU!?

And while we're at it, let's not stop at the actual bringing of your child to the office. The metaphorical bringing of your child to the office irritates the ever loving shit out of me, too. If I have to sit through one more story of that super cute intelligent oh so special and talented thing your kid did (which is TOTALLY within normal childhood developmental progression, by the way, and not indicative of above average intelligence whatsoever), I will FLIP OUT, Hulk-style.

Seriously -- I am 30, unmarried and definitively dry-wombed. After rent and bills are paid, I treat my biweekly paycheck like Monopoly money ("Why yes, good sir, I WILL have that fourth mimosa to cap off this totally unnecessary $75 brunch for which I rolled out of bed and slapped makeup on my face through a blinding hangover to enjoy! Adulthood is ACES!"). So why is it, exactly, that you think I'm an appropriate vessel to regale with the tale of that time your kid told you he wanted to grow up to become a fire hydrant and you all just laughed and laughed and laughed? I'm not impressed -- I just think your kid is fucking stupid. (A FIRE HYDRANT, for fuck's sake? Did you let him eat all the glue during craft time?)

It's even worse if the story you're telling is a gross one and we're sitting down to lunch in the office kitchenette. At what point did you say to yourself, "You know what would go great with this chicken salad sandwich? A story about little Nevaeh shitting herself and using her own fingers to wipe it all over the bathroom wall!" Did you reproduce and simultaneously get a lobotomy for the part of your brain that controls decorum? NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR THAT WHILE THERE IS FOOD ON THE TABLE.

Oh, oh what's that you say? It's the official Take Your Daughters and Sons to Work Day today?

... fuck.

You win this time, society.

Goddammit.