It’s important to engage in honest self-reflection anytime we go through a period of pronounced change.

Doing so empowers us to stay centered on our core values when the world speeds and to retain the most important parts of our humanity. Otherwise we’re just emotionally-hollow moths circling ever-closer to the tiki torch’s flame without any sense of where we’ve been or what we value.

I recently engaged in such a self-reflection and came away troubled by how my new role as a parent has changed some of my daily norms. Namely, I’m worried that parenting is grooming me to be a serial killer.

Consider this: despite having working toilets, approximately fifty-percent of my weekly household garbage is human feces. I’m practically swimming in the stuff and it’s taken on a much more frightening tinge since last month’s introduction of solid foods.

I thought introducing solid foods would be a positive step. I even brought out my video camera to record the event as a major milestone.

The first fresh food she tried was avocado because her mother wants her to be a hipster. She hated it though (like me) and has instead settled into a love for sweet potatoes and butternut squash.

All of this was splendid like a magical visit to Peter Cottontail’s garden until our six-month wellness check when the doctor suggested we next try meat.

“Oh, like a nice chicken broth?” I asked, imagining our family enjoying a fine soup together.

The doctor curled her lip and narrowed her gaze sneering, “No, you take the meat and MASH IT. Puree it real fine until it’s nice and smooth.”

“What kind of home do you think I keep!?” I wondered, clutching my pearls, “that we have the tools to liquify meat?”

Turns out it was on our wedding registry (thanks Heidi).

Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop there. My spiral into serial killer territory goes far beyond fecal-laden garbage and meat liquefaction.

I now spend several hours of each day creeping around my own house in the dark. I’ve mastered the art of stealth maneuvering.

I learned to walk quietly on the sides of my feet during my childhood when it was generally accepted that I would someday be a ninja. People constantly asked, “what are you going to be when you grow up,” I’d respond “ninja” and everyone agreed. Especially after they saw my karate chop.

Now I’ve added the ability to move in or out of my bed without making a sound, which is an entirely creepy skill to possess.

I’ve developed this skill out of desperation since my six-month-old daughter still sleeps in my room. She does this because when I put her alone in her crib, she cries. In order to resolve this dilemma I’m supposed to let her cry alone (for hours if necessary) to adjust to the fact that the world is a cruel and unforgiving place.

This is hard for me because I’m not yet a serial killer and still feel empathy when other people cry. My support system views this as weakness and encourages the hardening of my soul to include the skill of purposeful indifference.

It’s troubling knowing that forces beyond American politics (with a hat tip to Russia) are conspiring to strip me of my empathy.

The same people who six months earlier welcomed me into their club with positive affirmations are today gleefully cackling that I should just “turn up the radio and pour a glass of wine while she cries it out.”

I will do no such thing, you Luddites; I’m more of a liquor or beer guy.

But more importantly, I have a long track record of never purposely making a baby cry. I’m not about to start with mine. At least not yet.

We call it good parenting, but if you see something, say something, so I’m compelled to speak out.

It may be too late for me. Just yesterday I found myself searching Amazon for some very serial-killerish products: gates I could use to block certain parts of my house and locks I could use to protect my poisonous and hazardous products.

We must stop normalizing this behavior for the good of society.

Modern parenting trends are clearly leading me down a dark path; I assume it ends at serial killer.

The warning signs are everywhere, including the most troubling, most serial-killerish trait, which I’ve saved for last: a browser history full of searches for removing bodily-fluid stains.

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