Hell yes, I’m gonna talk about this. This being the cover of Time magazine this week. Let me first set the stage and my personal experience with “exposure” to this cover.
It was a Thursday like any other. I was dialing into conference calls. I was creating/updating/copying and pasting powerpoint decks. I was focused. I was busy. Then along came a text message. With this photo:
Upon viewing, I did what any highly educated, not easily bothered or disturbed by crazy shit, individual would do. I cracked open a bottle of Boones Farm, fell into the corner of my dining room and rocked myself back and forth for hours in a fetal like position.
I had been affected.
And not in a good way.
And I can only imagine what this kid has in store for him. This is TIME MAGAZINE for god’s sake. This is not your local free publication, with a readership of 7. Time magazine has a readership of, ballpark = a shit ton of readers. On a global scale.
I’m not gonna touch on attachment parenting. I don’t know enough about it, I haven’t read anything by Dr. Sears. I simply know this cover is odd and probably not made with your child’s best intentions in mind. I get you want to make a statement. Statement away, I say. But statement alone.
Your kid is now THAT KID. Remember the Nirvana album cover with the baby swimming in the pool with his wee-wee (fancy suburban word) hanging out? He became THAT KID. He grew up. He is still THAT KID.
This kid is now the 3 year old kid, standing on a crazy ass tiny chair, sucking on his kinda hot mom’s tit, with, dare I say it, an incredibly, incredible creepy look on his face.
So do what you want with your kid. Breastfeed him till he’s 42. Chew up his food for him and feed him like a bird. Go ahead. I could care less. But don’t place his face on TIME friggin’ magazine and brand your kid as THAT KID for the rest of his life!
PS – Dear THAT KID: If you wanna come play at our house I’ve got some Sunny D or Capri Sun Roaring Waters for you to try. You’re 3 (I think you look older). It’s time I exposed you to these crazy new drinks.
PSS – I won’t photograph you drinking this. Nor will I send it to your crazy ass mom. She’ll never know.
PSSS – Call me!