Every time a mother adds a new member to the family, she has to spend some time reassuring the other members that she still loves them.  One of my children recently accused me, “You love Susie more than me!” to which I calmly replied, “No, I love all my children the same.  You are each so different!  And so special!  And if any one of you died, I would cry for the rest of my life!”

Then I tried to change the subject because I don’t want to tell them the whole story, which is that I do love all my children equally, but there is only one that I worship, which is, obviously, baby Susie.  I can’t tell them this because it would undermine the religious values we are trying to instill in our children:  Everyone should worship God and only God.

It’s hard, though, really really hard, to not devote all my heart, might, mind and strength to serving Susie and singing her praises.  My other children have no right to be jealous because they wouldn’t let me worship them even if I wanted to.  If I tried to sing them hymns of praise such as (to the tune of Camptown Races) “I just love your birthday suit, doo-dah, doo-dah, I just love your birthday suit, doo-dah, doo-dah day,” they would yell things like “STOP SINGING!”  Susie, on the other hand, grins and squeals when I sing this song.  She also lets me kiss her round tummy and pinch the rolls on her thighs any time I want.  Furthermore, her toes don’t stink.  Her diapers smell like sweet bread, and her neck smells like sour cream.  Susie is a ball of delicious, rashy goodness, all wrapped up in sweet chubbiness, kind of like a ball of delicious crab meat all wrapped up in fried flour (which I am, by the way, also tempted to worship).

My favorite idolatrous fantasy is that all other people and obligations in my life would disappear (yes, even you, dear readers), leaving me more time and energy to worship Susie. Susie could be my goddess, and my bed would be her temple.  She would dwell there day and night.  I would bring her milk offerings, and she would bless me with sleep.  We would commune together through snuggles and snacky snoozies.  She would never command me to put down my book or get up and get dressed.  And from time to time she would perform a miracle, such as finding her tiny thumb and slowly, masterfully aiming it into her mouth.  The only reason I would ever leave Susie’s temple is so I could rock her in my rocking chair and feel her sturdy, wiggly body melt into a limp lump.

You are probably tempted to condemn me.  Please remember that two wrongs don’t make a right, and judging your neighbor is wrong.  Also, please don’t tell my other children.  I shouldn’t even have told you.  But I’m not a Catholic, so my blog is serving as my confessional.

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