Don't punch my baby.

As lifelong customer, first time service sector employee, I never realized how friggen' needy customers were. I suppose it's the volume of customers I've been subjected to this weekend. It's all, "Can you crop this? What's on a sheet? I wish my kid was smiling. Don't punch my baby."

And no, we cannot superimpose the face of one of your kids from another picture onto the family pose you like so much. We're a digital studio, not magicians. Stop asking me. It's not really that funny.

Seriously customers, you all need to get together and talk to each other. I'm tired of repeating myself. I'm going to tell one of you our prices and sheets and then you can spread it around, telephone-game-style.

And to the babies of the world: I'm feeling kindly disposed to you, despite the fact that you're not all on your best behaviour. I feel bad for you, because your parents seem a little insane. I'm sure the indignity of having your butt sniffed in a public area, checking for poopy drawers, is hard to stand. However, please remember that I'm your friend, and I can't catch the ball you're throwing if you're tossing it at the back of my head.

My family is particularly outraged that I don't get a lunch break on the weekends. I tell them that I'm just glad that I get bathroom breaks. 'Cause even that's not a given on Saturday and Sunday. Grandpa says I should form a union.

I did, for the record, feel better leaving than I did going in. So I guess that's something.