In the tiny sheltered pampered enclaves of coastal American cities, some parents are refusing to reveal their children’s biological sex to anyone—including relatives and the infants themselves—until the toddler is old enough to decide for himself or herself. Instead of babies, they are calling their genderless spawn “theybies.”

Even stranger is the fact that they will act as if YOU’RE the weird one if you have a problem with that. They will act as if you’re some weird sort of pedophilic voyeur who is “obsessed” with their baby’s genitals, which is less likely than the idea that they are “unhappy” with their baby’s genitals—so unhappy, they have to tell the world about it.

(I will briefly detour to note the soul-scorching inanity of those who insist that “gender” and “sex” are two entirely different things, with the first purely cultural and the latter purely biological. It never seems to occur to these dolts that culture is an expression of biology, nor that throughout world history with very few exceptions, nearly all cultures just so happened to “assign” gender according to this “male/female binary” they’re insisting is rooted in bad ideas rather than penises and vaginas. To me, “gender” and “sex” might as well be synonymous, and anyone who insists otherwise has been tickled with goose feathers one too many times.)

As their, um, “reasoning” goes, we live in a culture that is oppressive and downright suffocating for anyone in the microscopic minority of damaged fools who suffer the delusion that they’re a different sex than their genitals dictate, and in order to curb their astronomical rates of suicide and self-harm—which are, of course, entirely caused by the hateful and so-called “normal” cishet society rather than a nagging inner shame that they may be naturally damaged—it doesn’t matter if we make the 99.4% of people who suffer zero gender confusion as uncomfortable as possible. If they have to surrender a 26-year career at England’s National Health Service because they refuse to bow down, kiss the rainbow-colored ring, and confess that there are more than two genders, it’s off with their heads.

One of the first murmurings of this supremely nutty trend erupted back in 2011, when a Toronto couple announced that they would be raising their new child, whom they saddled with the name “Storm,” completely oblivious to the idea that in nearly all cases, one’s genitals determine their gender—and in the rare cases where the person suffers from a delusion that they don’t, that person is likely to suffer massive psychological problems at the very least.

Now age five, baby Storm has decided that she’s a girl. Her ten-year-old sibling, Jazz, “identifies as a transgender girl, having begun her transition three days before she turned 7.” Her seven-year-old sibling Kio “identifies as non-binary and uses the pronoun ‘they,’” as does these poor children’s mom, while their dad’s personal pronouns are “he or they.”

Do you get the sense that this family has a lot of free time on their hands? Do you also get the sense that the parents are using their own children as inanimate sexual voodoo dolls through which they’re either working out their own bottomless psychiatric issues or skin-peelingly shallow cultural trendiness? Do you also get the sense that when—sorry, “if”—these kids grow up, at least one of them will hate their parents with a burning, cancerous fury?

Say hi to three-year-old twins Zyler and Kadyn Sharpe, who were fortunate enough to have born in the rarefied climes of Cambridge, MA. Despite their financial fortunes, little Zyler and Kadyn suffer the handicap of parents who gave them space-alien names and who refuse to just buck the fuck up and tell them whether they’re boys or girls.

Nate Sharpe, father of the gender-indeterminate three-year-olds with space-alien names, knows damn well what genitals his kids were born with, but he sternly and staunchly refuses to reveal these simple biological facts in favor of parading these poor toddlers around like miniature rainbow-colored circus freaks:

A theyby is, I think, different things to different people. For us, it means raising our kids with gender-neutral pronouns — so, ‘they,’ ‘them,’ ‘their,’ rather than assigning ‘he,’ ‘she,’ ‘him,’ ‘her’ from birth based on their anatomy.

See, but Nate, these terms are based on anatomy. For some reason, every last one of you gender-dreamers seem to stub your toe on the hilariously simple fact that “she” is a term that has always meant nothing more and nothing less than “that person over there with the vagina.” And as one dad to another, some deep tugging in my guts tells me that this brave experiment you’re publicly conducting on your kids in front of the whole world may have some catastrophic unintended consequences. A voice that screams within the darkest abysses of my soul says that whatever “trauma” a boy may endure by being forced to play baseball even if he’d rather play with dolls doesn’t come close to how you’re going to scramble your kid’s brains for life by refusing to tell him or her—and let’s be honest, you know that difference—what will be an essential part of their identity whether you like it or not. I would counsel you to quit being a baby and stop calling it a theyby.