I think that your kid is the same age she was when you and I first met. It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been co-workers. That child has been frozen in time ever since the moment I learned that she existed.
At some point, you’re going to mention the actual current age of your kid. And I’m going to be, like, “Holy shit! No freaking way! Oh, my God, where does the time go?”
The time has gone wherever time always goes. It has progressed at its customary rate. But that whole time, I haven’t been thinking about your kid. At all. It’s really surprising that she keeps aging, while I’m over here not thinking about her one tiny bit.
I can’t quite remember how many kids you have, either. If we live in a large city, I think you have one kid. If we live outside a large city, I think you have two kids. If you’ve ever mentioned that you have more than three kids, I think you have one million kids.
I also don’t know how old you are. If you started at our workplace before me, I think you’re old. If you started at our workplace after me, I think you’re young. Our actual ages, in absolute terms or relative to each other, are completely irrelevant to this perception.
If you didn’t have any kids when we first started working together, but then you had a baby, I will forever think of that kid as a baby.
If you mention that your kid learned how to read, I’ll assume you’re trapped in a multilevel-marketing scheme where you’re being forced to sell a bunch of those “Your Baby Can Read!” educational DVD sets.
If you mention that you bought your kid a car, I’ll say, “Cool!” But I’ll think it’s weird that you bought a car for a baby and now that car’s just going to sit there for sixteen years until your baby can legally drive.
Eventually, you’ll mention that you’re taking off work to prepare for your kid’s high-school graduation party. And I’ll nod slowly and say, “Take all the time you need,” not because I’m particularly supportive but because I’m concerned about your mental health. Because your daughter isn’t graduating from high school this weekend. Because she is a baby.
When you say that your daughter is running for President of the United States of America, I will finally snap out of it. Something needs to be done. This is a very straightforward violation of Article II, Section 1, Clause 5 of the Constitution, which states that the President must have attained the age of thirty-five years to be eligible for office.
It’s not even the letter of the law that matters here, it’s the principle—we simply cannot have an infant as President!
I will launch a bitter smear campaign against your child, gathering a powerful coalition committed to bringing her down, which will include members of the opposition party, misogynists both avowed and casual, and a somewhat smaller group of individuals who also think of your kid as a baby. My activism will cause considerable tension in the office.
But your child will prevail. And although I’m wary of being ruled by a baby, I respect democracy, and I consent to the will of the people. As I said when you first showed me her picture when you returned from maternity leave, she’s clearly a very special kid. ♦