When the former Love Island winner Mollie Mae Hague finally revealed her newborn daughter’s name, I didn’t bat a doe-eyed lash. I felt rather jaded. I’m already familiar with an influencer baby called Bambi, and at four months old she’s got an incredible head start on this new kid on the block.
I follow Bambi snr’s mother on TikTok. She’s an Australian content creator called Indy Clinton who posts chaotic videos of her toddler son Navy. Clinton has it all: conventionally attractive with a long-suffering husband and a sense that “our lives are bedlam but we’re still laughing”. I seek out her videos, wondering what Navy’s spilled into the toaster today and anticipating Bambi’s tiny “I’m so over it” facial expression.
In the world of famous TikTok children, babies reign supreme. A British mum posts regular updates of her one-year-old’s weaning journey, starting her videos with “So, today Rue is having...” and then listing a menu of baby-friendly meals and recipes. The camera is placed opposite Rue’s highchair as she eats, capturing her chubby, expressive face as she tries sweet potato for the first time or berates her mother for being stingy with the berries.
Commenters claim that the content is akin to ASMR or that their day isn’t complete until they know what Rue’s had for lunch. I’m vaguely aware of what Rue’s mum looks like and would struggle to identify her in real life. However, if I saw the child in public, I would feel like I’d seen a celebrity.
I’ve been feeling increasingly uneasy about the kids I watch online, from the influencer babies to acquaintances who engage enthusiastically in “sharenting”. I wonder what the long game or indeed the end game is for a baby like Rue. Does her mother have an end date for the carefully curated weaning content? Will she pivot into pseudo privacy, hiding Rue’s face but still posting about her regularly? Or will she carry on, allowing us to watch until the child can intervene or acquiesce?
How does Indy Clinton’s son Navy react when somebody recognises him in a supermarket? How will he feel when he’s older and thousands of people know about his history as a toddler who’s just on the cusp of being unmanageable?
And yet I kept watching. I let the content wash over me like a warm wave of anaesthesia and ignore the niggling thought that I’m just another creep watching babies I don’t know online, without their consent. It’s a quagmire of morals and ethics. There are regulations around advertising to children but none around using children as mini influencers in online advertisements. Parents have no control over how strangers are capturing and using images of their children. Tantrums, meltdowns and emotional events are exploited as entertainment.
As an elder millennial I’m a member of the last generation to grow up and have my childhood remain a mystery
Some commenters criticise parenting choices and child behaviours, while others thank the content creators for providing comfort and relatability. Income from online content is a murky topic. Maybe it provides financial opportunities a child might otherwise have gone without, or perhaps it lines the pockets of parents who’ve pivoted into a career as a full-time influencer.
Recently, when the popular TikTok parent Maia Knight decided to stop showing her twins’ faces, I was pushed further into the zone of discomfort. I knew way too much about these tiny, oblivious tots. Covering their faces felt like the horse was already four fields away. It would have been better not to let it get to the point where strangers were bemoaning the sudden loss of access to “their babies”. This entitled stance finally pushed me off the fence and on to the “this is wrong” side. Posting images of a child online is a choice. It’s a choice for those who maintain a rigidly private Facebook account to share photos with grandparents. It’s a choice for those proud to provide life updates to their wider online circle. And it’s a choice for those who profit from sharing their kids’ lives with countless strangers.
It’s not a choice, however, for babies and children who have no agency over where and how their lives are disseminated. As an elder millennial I’m a member of the last generation to grow up and have my childhood remain a mystery. The first cohort of people who were born into an online world are now adults, and some are detailing the negative effects of growing up under so much scrutiny. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and these “Facebook babies” have it in abundance. We should probably listen to them.