Parents are creepy. That’s not an opinion. It’s science. We plot ways to “put the baby down” then sit in the dark and stare at them, or else stand outside their doors and eavesdrop. We talk about their bowel movements. Often. We show them to our spouses and rank them on scales of “eh” to “whoaaaa!” We sniff our babies’ backsides before determining whether it’s worth the effort to take off their clothes. We don’t think twice about using a hand that has changed a diaper to eat a cheeseburger. We go out in public wearing sweat pants and stained shirts, and speak in high-pitched, Pee Wee Herman-esque voices (intentionally). We wait a few days too long to shave (both genders). We become paranoid about noises and are willing to threaten physical violence on neighbors, landscapers, elderly people, pets who are engaging in life above a librarian-approved whisper outside our sleeping child’s room. We take naked baby photos and show them to others. We derive most of our daily joy from a child’s laughter, and yet have pondered whether throwing that same child against a wall technically qualifies as child abuse. We bounce our babies so vigorously in an attempt to put them to sleep that it’s just this side of “shaken baby syndrome.” We cite the internet as a source in discussing how we are raising our children. We ascribe them thoughts and intelligence beyond their years while, at the same time, comparing them unfavorably to other babies who hit certain “milestones” first as if we live in a 1984 dystopia in which individuality is not allowed. We talk to inanimate objects. Sometimes we try to convince our children that spoons and forks are unidentified flying objects. Then we tell them to put these UFO’s in their mouth. And praise them when they do. Parents aren’t just creepy; we’re insane. As Bill Cosby said, “My wife and I were intellectuals before we had children.” Now, I fear, we’re just certifiable.