Having a kid is like joining a cult. You immediately worship them, become a selfless automaton, an unwavering vessel of devotion. We sprint in service at the slightest coo. We kneel, penitent before their deific whims. We change their horrifying diapers, defending against the gag reflex with the imperturbable skill of a sword swallower.
Subtly, indoctrination occurs well before conception. This cycle plays out, over and over, as the childless are constantly recruited by current parents, friends and relatives, all pledging allegiance to the benefits of parenthood. They describe having kids as if you’re attending an awesome social event, a fraternity party. Right, it’s just like that. They’re programming us, people.
Perhaps the most lethal stage of The Kid Cult (TKC) is random sleep disturbances, often signaled by violent outbursts, sounds that mirror a blatting Hydra, that Multi-Headed Serpent Dragon. Normal sleep patterns are disrupted, causing confusion and further dissolution of self. The following is an excerpt from my journal, a visceral account of this terrifying stage.
With a reaction reminiscent of Scatman Crothers receiving a bellyful of axe in The Shining (1980), I’m shattered from sleep, near paroxysm, now hurdling pillows in an effort to console Him. On his back in the cradle, beet red and contorting, He thrusts his limbs into the air with enough energy to defenestrate a Sony Trinitron. My heart goes out to Him, my deity.
At this hour my cognitive skill is tantamount to a slice of bread wishing it were a loaf. Dumbfounded, I submit to His whirlpool of great size and destruction. My wife steps in, relieving me from my mountain of inability. What can I do? I often feel useless.