Death of the cool

Slowly but surely, I am crossing over to talking like a Dad even when I'm not talking to Samson. Not in a do-your-homework-and-clean-up-your-room sort of way, though.

This is more like the who-wants-a-cookie? voice.

I have a colleague who has three kids, and I always tease him for explaining everything in such deliberate terms that it sounds as if he's talking to a 10-year-old. Want to guess how old his oldest child is?

I was walking with said colleague today, and a garbage truck passed us on the street.

Like some kind of Pavlovian freak, I raised my hand to point out the truck.

Luckily, I caught myself before saying something like: "Do you see that truck there? Oh, my goodness, it's a garbage truck! Can you wave to the men on the back of the truck? Good job, buddy."

I mean, it's not like I was Miles Davis before Sam was born, but this is just sad...