I have worked in any number of spaces, working my way up to the office-esque gold standard of an office with a door I could close. Concession stands, cashier stations, copydesk bullpens, and cubicles, pretty much in that order.

(I had no idea when I started out in life that the real gold standard was working in bed, but let me tell you—it’s the absolute best.)

When my kid was born, I regretted that I hadn’t already attained door-dom. There were occasions in his babyhood when circumstances went sideways and the kid got stuffed in a Pak-n-Play at my workspace. He was good motivation, though. By the time he was 1, I had a cubicle; by the time he was three, I had an office.

He hated my office. He much preferred toddling to and fro, making the rounds like a pint-sized pol, saying hello and interrupting people trying to get work done. Please note, I was not a totally awful co-worker—generally speaking, the kid’s dad or I would be in close pursuit and swoop in before anyone could get too irritated. And there were always a couple people delighted with the chance to procrastinate.

It was one such evening with one such friend of ours when the kid learned the perils of cubicles. I have no idea how he did it, but the kid fell over something took a header into the edge of the cubicle, slicing his ear. He howled and bled for a nice long time, and then another good friend kindly agreed to drive us home instead of making us wait another hour for his dad to be ready to go.

To this date, the kid has a scar on his ear. Cubicle: 1; Kid: 0.