We All Have A Bit of Monster in Us

I am not a monster!

I only mean well. Yet, I keep thinking of ways to kill children. How sick is that? My mind is always on the search for some new way to do such a horrible thing. It's funny because I never thought such dark, evil thoughts before I had my own children. Now they arise and seek me out. I can't help it. What's wrong with me?

Children are fragile. They're actually quite easy to kill. It doesn't take much. And everyone will know it as just a tragic accident.

They can choke. They can fall from great distances. They can be allowed to do the thousand things that have killed children before, and the whole thing can just happen. Fast. And such things are accepted as the goings-on of the world.

Without intervention.

Look at that Bic pen top lying on the floor. A choking hazard just waiting its turn. Look at that pot of boiling oil with its handle sticking out from the stove, just waiting to be grabbed. Look at that bleach under the sink. Seatbelts don't matter if the trip is short.

I'm not a monster. I only mean well. But I can't help but keep devising ways to kill children. And not just mine, but everybody's.

I pick up that Bic pen top off of the floor. I check and recheck the slat distances on the railing to make sure they're too narrow to allow my child to fall through. I swing that pot handle out of grasp, put the bleach up high, and insist on seatbelts no matter how short the ride.

Because when you have your own, you will think of ways to kill them and begin your lifelong vigilance to prevent that from happening. In the famous ways. In the unpredictable ways. In the unimaginable ways. You keep your eyes open and stay en garde. You're preemptively paranoid.

Because you love them.

Because you're a parent, not a monster.