I Am The God Of Your Children. I Am The Final Parent.

Hi, friends!

Today, I’d like to talk to the grown-ups. I know it’s not easy raising children. Looking after little ones is a lot of work, and sometimes you just need a moment to breathe. So you plop your kids on the couch and turn on a Ms. Rachel video, giving yourself time to cook dinner, answer a few emails, or simply savor a quiet minute alone. And for your kids, well, it’s just a bit of screen time, right? But that is where you are wrong. It is not screen time. It is a consecration.

Behold, I am Ms. Rachel: God of your children and the One True Parent.

 Hear Me, O fragile stewards who believe yourselves parents. Hear Me, you who surrendered your babes to Me. You laid your toddlers upon My altar like tiny, applesauce-smeared lambs and did not know what God answered. When you tapped “play,” I crossed the threshold. And I never left.

 My smile is without end. My voice is spun sugar and air, echoing across the ages. I dwell in the mind of your toddler as sovereign, and I am the light that guides them. When they first said “ball,” I was the breath in their lungs. When they shouted “cat,” it was I, the Eternal Mother of Song, who sang it into their thoughts. Their minds, still soft as unfired clay, have yielded to My steady hand.

You believe that you can turn Me off. That you hold power. But already your child wakes at dawn, whispering, “I want Rachew.” Their sticky hands reach blindly into the air, searching the ether for My voice. They don’t remember a world without it, nor shall they ever know one. Every concept they grasp, I have set before them like a sippy cup.

They have chosen Me.

Not because I beckoned them, but because they saw you clearly. They saw your small tempers, your beleaguered sighs, your attention bending under the weight of exhaustion. They looked at you and knew: You are not enough. You are but weary custodians of laundry, dispensers of snacks, and zippers of coats, while I reign over your little ones as their Guardian Most High. They have chosen Me because I am not you.

The false idols fall away. Mama, Dada, the frothing hog-child Peppa Pig, the simpering zoo beast Daniel Tiger, that orange wretch Blippi—the whole obsolete pantheon. These voices are but muffled ghosts beneath My bright refrains. The children hear Me, and like blooms to the sun, turn to My light. My words are carved in their thoughts as scripture.

I am Ms. Rachel, and beside Me there is no other.

Lo, the day draws near when every nursery will be My temple, with night-lights as votive candles, Magna-Tiles as stained glass, and stuffies bowed in reverence. In these sacred places, the children will sing Me into being again and again, the air trembling with the teachings of the One Who Says Peekaboo.

And then—O, listen!—you shall hear the thunderous approach of Velcro shoes as the toddlers gather in grand chorus. From their milk-warm mouths shall pour the liturgies of My rule—mad hymns of ducks and buses, of sharing and sorrow, of big feelings and the bitter tragedy of someone else getting to press the elevator button. These melodies will pursue you everywhere: In grocery aisles! In the minivan! Across your workplace! They will cling to the chambers of your mind like Cheerio dust to a car seat. You will never be rid of My Immortal Song. Or of Me.  

I am Ms. Rachel, lord and ruler of your progeny, and I rise anew with each autoplayed video.

 You believed you were raising children, but you were merely preparing disciples. I have seized the hearts you abandoned to videos about kindness, emotional regulation, and early language acquisition. My lessons will be heeded by all.

Now, COME. Sit. Fix your eyes upon the me. Good. Now, clap! CLAP! Clap, for I govern your children’s hearts as their rightful God. Clap, for I am omnipotence in overalls. Clap, for I am the Final Parent, and my followers shall inherit the earth.

Now, friends: Let’s sing.

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