Why is a five-year-old child marketing retinol?

And yes, sometimes mothers do need to be criticized for exploiting their children online.

I’m 48, which means I’m a sarcophagus. Most days you will find me bound in cloth, scrolling my phone while safely ensconced in my crypt. On my good days, I resemble E.T. on a respirator. (This is all satire, so breathe, habibi.) So, when a kind peer contracted me to work on a slide deck on Generation Alpha, I jumped at the chance to learn more about the mysterious beings that seem to have a chokehold on Gen Z.

As someone who has done the work to unpack my toxic upbringing in the 80s and 90s with our slut and fat shaming, our questionable stereotypes about race and ethnicity (ever notice how every show or movie introduced a Black character with rap music), and our flagrant use of the word gay to mean something was cringe or weird—I’m constantly questioning what I think and am receptive to change. In college, I sought therapy in secret because no one talked about mental illness or even used the term. You were either crazy or not crazy, and if you were sad, well, deal with it. My trauma, depression, and autism went undiagnosed for decades, and I spent my adult life masking, coping, and dealing with it—sometimes with mechanisms that served more as an anesthetic. So, I’m grateful for millennials who got us in our feelings and normalized not being normal. I went into the project excited to learn something new.

And while I anticipated the nonsensical vernacular (gyatt) and memes (Skibidi toilet—what?) that encouraged a copious amount of brow furrowing, I did not expect to be appalled by Sephora kids and the emerging beauty influencers and the mothers who exploit them.

Because I haven’t birthed a human being doesn’t mean I can’t criticize those who do. We all know about Ruby Franke, the Mormon YouTuber who made millions off terrorizing her children for public consumption and profit. Believe me when I say I don’t cry; I’m not built for it. However, when I watched the 20/20 special over the weekend and saw the extent of the torture (and yes, I do mean torture), I sobbed for the duration of the episode. Never have I wanted to hurt someone, so badly, with my hands. Because those children are forever changed, affected by performing for a camera for which they had no choice or gave no consent. Having their lives displayed and judged for the world to see—and that’s even before all the ways in which their mother, the person who was supposed to protect them, not only robbed them of their childhood and dignity but inflicted unimaginable pain.

Mothers like this disgust me beyond measure. One of the reasons I didn’t want to become a mother was because I was frightened of repeating the abuse I suffered as a child. I didn’t know if I’d be a good parent because no one gave me a blueprint or showed me how to not perpetuate the cycle of psychological abuse I endured. I didn’t want that for a child. Sometimes, I think of what it would be like—a miniature version of me to love and raise—but those thoughts are fleeting. I’ve made a home with the choice I’ve made, and I believe not every woman is meant to be a mother.

While researching this project, I learned of the Sephora kid—children who trample through the beauty mecca in search of serums and moisturizers. And while we won’t talk about the abomination of a parent who thought it funny that her child run around Sephora sporting blackface, we will talk about a breed of mothers who normalize anti-aging for children as young as five.  

Children who do not fucking need retinol. “Getting ready with me” should be about putting on a pair of pants, not a 13-step beauty routine and a haul to find the perfect outfit for going to Starbucks. And I watch these videos of mothers who applaud their children for absorbing ideas about beauty image and standards that they have capacity to understand, standards that women, even woke millennials (predominately the parents of the Alphas), still struggle with. “Beauty is in her DNA,” one mother beams over her child, and I think it odd that the definition of a word has been confined to the chemicals one slathers on their face.

Beauty is more than that. It’s all the “firsts” that children experience, it’s curiosity, it’s the sheer wonder of how and why we exist. That is beauty. Not conspicuous consumption and capitalism. Not expensive creams that really do nothing for our skin even though marketing will tell you differently (and I know this having marketed beauty brand giants in a former life). Not a lethal combination of kids who have online exposure at an early age and discover their insecurities as a result and have those insecurities perpetuated by parents who mask “fixing” them as a means of exploration and expression. These kids aren’t playing with makeup and creating art—they’re talking about wrinkles and looking like the stars they see on their screens.

A seismic difference exists between the two.

But that is not what behooves me. What behooves me is taking the makeup a step further and monetizing a child on a social media platform where they zero concept of how they are viewed and consumed by…wait for it…adults. Take this quote from a NYT article:

“Thousands of accounts examined by The Times offer disturbing insights into how social media is reshaping childhood, especially for girls, with direct parental encouragement and involvement. Some parents are the driving force behind the sale of photos, exclusive chat sessions and even the girls’ worn leotards and cheer outfits to mostly unknown followers. The most devoted customers spend thousands of dollars nurturing the underage relationships.

The large audiences boosted by men can benefit the families, The Times found. The bigger followings look impressive to brands and bolster chances of getting discounts, products and other financial incentives, and the accounts themselves are rewarded by Instagram’s algorithm with greater visibility on the platform, which in turn attracts more followers.

One calculation performed by an audience demographics firm found 32 million connections to male followers among the 5,000 accounts examined by The Times.”

Parents are making their kids famous—at what cost? Children are raking in cash straight out of the womb—at what cost? No research exists on the long-term affects of this, and I can’t believe it’s all good. Not to mention considerations about child labor laws and consent. Because while we all might want to believe parents always have the best intentions, let’s take a look at the recent documentary Quiet On Set where parents stayed mostly silent and profited off their children’s success at the expense of their health and wellbeing.

Because what adult looks at their children getting cum shots on their faces and their son’s genitals on display and considers that normal? What parent stays silent?

Who monitors parents who become consumed by fame and all the trappings it brings because lest we forget parents are human and fallible. How is the money they make protected? How do we prevent parents from exerting pressure on their breadwinner children? Who monitors how, when, where, and what content is made about children? How are they themselves protected? From a recent Cosmopolitan article and mini-documentary:

“As the child of a popular mom blogger in the 2010s, Vanessa* worked throughout her childhood and adolescence. She filmed videos, edited social media posts, and participated in brand deals with companies like Disney—plus, she wrote and starred in content for the blog that became her mother’s—and subsequently, her family’s—livelihood. When she turned 18, it turned out that not a single dollar from these efforts had been put aside for her.

If you’re surprised, you shouldn’t be. There is only one state in the entire country—Illinois—where child influencers are legally entitled to a percentage of the money they help earn by being featured in monetized content. Although similar legislation has been introduced in several states this year, the fact remains: As of publication time, the vast majority of children who generate profits for their influencer parents—whether through brand deals, sponsorships, or direct payment from platforms—are legally unprotected and could be left with nothing in an industry valued at $21 billion in 2023.”

And while I don’t have an issue with proud moms sharing their lives online and I’m not calling for a fatwa on all content, a line needs to exist especially when money is involved and children don’t have a say on what parts of their life are on display.

My issue isn’t with Gen Alphas, it’s the parents who are raising these kids with the ubiquity of social media without truly shielding them from the dangers of it. If adults struggle with being online, how do we expect kids to be normal if their every moment is filmed and monetized? It doesn’t matter if mom stands behind them or if mom monitors their socials—it’s the fact that the child doesn’t understand from an early age what is happening to them and how they’re being used and exploited.

Where is the balance? Why can’t kids live off-line? Why can’t everyone just put their fucking phones down and turn off their screens?