I was at Rubio’s the other day, intently listening to the women at the table next to me.  (Alex was there too, but don’t ask him to repeat this story because people at the next booth could be plotting his murder and he’d never know.)  One of the women had her young son with her, and while her friend would try relate the latest gossip (One of their co-workers was cheating on her husband!  -Gasp!-) she would interrupt constantly to correct/admonish/control/congratulate her son.  It was incredible that her friend didn’t just give up on the conversation and join the mother in talking about how great it was that the kid stopped screaming for 5 seconds to dump his beans on the floor.  It made me think that children can ruin your adult friendships and you will never have a decent, fluid conversation again while your children are young.  That is a pessimistic generalization, sure, but I don’t care.  I don’t think I have a certain gene that is necessary for the care of young children.  I’m missing the “Insipid Childrens’ Programming Tolerance” gene, therefore I do not make the necessary proteins that cause people to sit through Disney sequels and “Wiggles” performances.  I can’t do it.  I can’t even listen to a conversation other people are having without becoming annoyed at “child-speak” (the substitution of “w’s” for “r’s” and over-enunciated vowels typical of new parents’ dialect).  This is a cause for concern because I like kids, I just can’t handle anything marketed for them.  I guess I’ll just have to wait until I’m 30 and retest myself by going to the “Barney Revisited and Cleared of all Charges: The Movie” in 2013.  If I can sit through the movie without rolling my eyes or feeling maternally inadequate, I suppose I’ll be ready for kids.  Until then, I love your kids, and I admire everyone who is a caring, devoted, patient parent.  Just don’t ask me to babysit your kids unless you want the activity of the evening to be chemistry tutoring, rocking out, and/or watching Law and Order: SVU.