Your Child
Should Hate You

From birth to “adult,” we’ve got it all wrong.


PART 1: THE INFANT

I don’t remember myself as an infant. I doubt many of us do. But you can imagine what it must have been like to be born into a sterile room, bright lights surrounding you, into the arms of a masked man who quickly whisked you away from the woman who just birthed you.

That is, if he didn’t cut you out of her stomach.

The masked man in the white coat clamps your umbilical cord. It’s still pulsating though—it’s too early. This process is routine, even though it cuts off essential iron and hemoglobin passage from the placenta.

He hands a pair of scissors to your father so he can participate in the first step of neglect for your body and your best interests.

The skin-to-skin contact with your mother that you’re biologically programmed to expect—that you desperately crave and need—is skipped. You’re handed off to uniformed nurses instead.

More lights, more commotion, more sterility. “Decontaminate” baby, inject baby, wrap baby.

They leave you in a room, mostly alone, so your mother can rest. You’re still craving that connection with your mother, but a stainless steel warming lamp and the mental impression from the quick glimpse you caught of her will have to do for now.

If you’re born cesarean—which most doctors are pushing for so their golf outings can be more predictable and moms can have easier births—you’re born without exposure to the precious birth canal bacteria that’s designed to seed your gut.

This is the first step in a two-step process of sabotaging the development of your immune system. The second comes closely after, as the the nurses swoop in to intercept your mother with their Newborn Welcome Kit.

“You should really consider supplementing with formula,” says the nurse. “Here’s a free sample from our friends at Abbott Laboratories and a coupon for your next purchase.”

Supplementing. That’s a funny usage in this context considering that breast milk has been quite effective since, well, the beginning of our entire species.

That food isn’t good enough, give your baby this also.

The subtle message that’s repeated ad nauseam is “natural is not enough.” No, it’s worse than that. Natural, at times, is dangerous.

Take, for instance, your sleeping arrangements at home. While you continue to crave comfort and closeness to your mother, she appears to be somewhat disconnected from you, frantically searching Google for, “How do I get my baby to sleep through the night?”

She wants you on a schedule, pronto. She wants you to sleep by yourself, sometimes in a separate room. Even if she wanted to be with you, she’s unsure if that’s possible. She’s confused, torn between something she inuitively feels is right and something Baby Center and The Experts have drilled into her head.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t sleep with you. It’s for your own good. The Expert says that if I sleep with you the way mothers have slept with their babies for hundreds of thousands of years, I might accidentally suffocate you.”

Hey, you might be lonely and detached, but at least you’re alive. You’re mom didn’t have you vacuumed out of her uterus and now she’s taking the second significant step of protecting you from herself (or so she’s told).

Closeness with mother is a nutrient for babies. But at every turn, you’re given the opposite. When friends come over, they pass you around like the plastic dolls they played with when they were kids. Everyone *deserves* a chance to hold you. It’s fun for them. Oh, not for you? Well, nobody asked.

They squeak at you in high pitched voices like you’re imbecilic. They make faces at you to try and get you to respond because everything you do is cute…until you need something.

The labeling starts here. If you sleep on schedule, don’t cry a lot, and refrain from making your presence too known, you’re a “good baby.” If you express frustration with your environment, you’re a “challenging baby.” Little do you know, you’ll never escape this cage of obedience.

Two short weeks later you’re brought back to The Experts. If you thought your first experience with them was hellish, it’s about to get more horrific than you ever could have imagined. See, the real nightmare is reserved only for the males in our society.

Again, you’re separated from the comfort and safety of your parents. They’re willing participants in today’s routine activity: the mutilation of your sexual organ.

God forbid you ever touch yourself.

God forbid you ever enjoy intercourse.

God forbid you ever enjoy the full experience of intimacy.

This procedure is only allowed to be done on males like you, by the way. Welcome to the patriarchy.

So here you are, isolated again. You’re too young to realize what’s being done to you. All you know is that the pain is severe. The horror of this world was bad before, but it’s worse now.

Your cortisol production is through the roof and nobody seems to care. It’s not a dissimilar emotional feeling from when you cry at home in your crib and your parents stand outside the door waiting for you to “self-soothe” so they can get a good night’s sleep.

Little do you or your parents know, the near-constant stress response that you’ve been experiencing since birth is influencing your genetic expression. Your programming is changing. New software is being installed. It’s not better software, it’s software designed to deal with the cold fucking world that has surrounded you at nearly all times since the day you were born.

This systematic absurdity exists because your parents have been turned into zoo animals. They’re so domesticated that they can no longer perform basic biological functions on their own. They need guidance from the authoritarian sector of our state-run society.

It sounds “out there,” but it’s really not. Get this: your parents don’t know how to feed themselves—or you—properly; they don’t know how to move their body properly; and they have no clue how to reproduce naturally.

For food, your parents need a Registered Dietician or a state-organized visual guide called a food pyramid. For movement, they need a Certified Personal Trainer. For reproduction they need a preist, state-run sex-ed, and an entire team of trained people with special equipment.

Sure, these are all things we‘re biologically programmed to do without help. They’re “in our nature.” But domestication is a bitch.

It’s possible your mom or dad was inquisitive and wanted to pursue a different route, but rest assured, The Experts squashed any of that nonsense with shame, guilt, fear, and belittlement.

The zoo animals are not allowed to question the trainers.

That same lesson will be drilled into your cerebrum in a few years when you begin the public schooling process, an important aspect of your training that makes the bars on the cages in the zoo visible and effective.

So, obedient as they are, your parents were relegated to doing the all-important, exhaustive research of baby naming. The extent of their responsibility was labeling you something subjectively nice.

They were comfortable with that job because it wasn’t something they could fail at. You may end up disliking your name, but that’s a lot easier to fix than your mutilated penis.

In fact, it’s a lot easier to fix than almost everything else that’s in store for you. Here’s a blanket, it’s a cold world out there.

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