I’ve Ruined My Kid’s Life

And they don’t even exist yet.

The plan was always making it, at least, until my children were born before irreversibly fucking them up. 

Recent advancements in our, well, somebody’s, understanding of epigenetics have found that’s no longer solid parenting. This bone-deep guilt trip shows our lifestyle edits our future kids’ genes in real time. 

From what they understand, children not only inherit their parents’ self-destructive behaviour, but all the slow-motion damage that behaviour caused. Seems only fair a newborn baby would get a fresh start. But, no, every trailing sequence of curried pints will soak into their chromosomes, too. 

So, if that miracle nut requires a few breathy intervals, the child will follow in your occasional footsteps. If Daddy is a wibbly embodiment of his own greed - so will his wobbly progeny. If Mum’s one nutritional concession is the occasional Guinness, then the kid will dodge anaemia, at the very, very least. 

Of course, there are those who move around enough to not hate themselves naked. They powerwalk among us, living proof of a few thousand refused muffins. No doubt, their cocksure little twerp will lunge out that amniotic sac with a hard-on and a can-do attitude.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are all pissing in the shallow end of our own gene pool - without a smidge of guilt on our fat, inheritable faces.  

Why is Mother Nature so cruel? Well, she’s only trying to help. As far as her family recipe is concerned, if there’s a bun in the oven, the proof is in the pudding. Any babies made are evidence we are the purest expression of our genetic potential. 

Quite reasonably, our DNA assumes we would surely only have adapted ourselves for survival. The genome doesn’t understand that the act of tarring our windpipes makes us slightly hotter. Neither can it account for the puzzling sex appeal of terminally obese bazillionaires. The pub grub subsistence diet (lager foam, pickled eggs & cheap cocaine) is a relatively new development for the human species. 

Evolution doesn’t know good genes from Adam - the snake-cucked origin of our species. It only knows what works.  

The greatest challenge in the field of epigenetic research is awareness. There’s just no unknowing it. 

Now, every touch-and-go dessert decision is weighing heavy on my conscience - and the hips of my tubby lineage. What we do for dinner, tonight, echoes in eternity. This Thursday night’s lapse is sculpting my teenage daughter’s dad bod. My firstborn son will be heir to my gut. One day, my boy, this will all be yours. 

Each round of failed negotiations with my running shoes is tenser than the last. Every pint, I’m now drinking for two. These unborn spongers expect a share of every line, to boot - as if coke grows on trees.

It’s not fair to make someone feel like a bad parent - especially if they don’t have any kids yet. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news and worse genes. Join me in dwelling on the multigenerational consequences of each dunked digestive.

Plus, it’s never too late to give the little bastards a fighting chance. If the threat of long-term health repercussions for your children won’t get you in shape, what will?

What will, indeed.