The Delivery Room Dealership

The Delivery Room Dealership

Why the Human Meat Suit Needs a New Owner’s Manual

A Weekend Rant —No. 11

By Corey W. Harland

Hello, and welcome back to Weekend Rants—my Friday-through-Sunday series of serious arguments, questionable packaging, and increasingly suspicious maintenance recommendations.

Last time, we discussed the military-industrial subscription economy, flying Shop-Vacs, and the possibility that humanity has managed to put a paywall between itself and the truth.

Well, today, we’re bringing the whole operation home.

Because before you can subscribe to civilization, you first have to be born into it.

And apparently, the human meat suit comes from a dealership.

Not a particularly reputable one, either.

I’m talking about the kind where the salesman has three teeth, the financing department operates out of a trailer, and somebody has circled the check-engine light with a Sharpie and written, “That’s normal.”

Welcome to the delivery room.

Picture this: a person has just completed the monumental, bone-shattering physical feat of manufacturing a brand-new human being from scratch.

Nine months of production. No outside contractors. No assembly-line assistance. Just a biological manufacturing facility operating around the clock, occasionally demanding pickles and ice cream as raw materials.

And now the finished product has arrived.

The mother is exhausted. The baby’s screaming. Somebody’s holding scissors. There are fluids everywhere, and nobody seems particularly concerned that the entire operation resembles an emergency engine replacement performed inside a car wash.

Then comes the paperwork.

Vaccination schedules. Feeding instructions. Follow-up appointments. Birth certificates. Insurance forms. Contraception counseling. And perhaps a conversation about whether anybody wants to permanently close the factory.

Now, before somebody gets excited, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for some of this.

Sometimes the medical staff isn’t trying to talk anybody into anything.

They’re making sure you’re sure.

After all, you’ve already completed the labor. You’re in the hospital. The doctors are available. The insurance machinery is already turning. And depending on the procedure, timing, coverage, and medical circumstances, arranging certain services during the same hospital stay may be more convenient or less expensive than coming back later.

That’s not necessarily a sales pitch.

That’s logistics.

And as someone who appreciates calculated risk management, I can respect a well-timed logistical opportunity.

But I can also recognize when perfectly sensible medical counseling sounds suspiciously like a dealership finance manager explaining the extended warranty.

“So, congratulations on your new model! Before you leave, would you like to discuss our reproductive maintenance package?”

“Excuse me?”

“We’ve got temporary options, permanent options, and a lovely selection of aftermarket plumbing modifications.”

“Can I just hold my baby?”

“Absolutely. But while you’re here, are you absolutely sure you don’t want to close the factory?”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course! We just want you to know that today’s operating-room availability may not come with tomorrow’s scheduling convenience.”

Now, informed consent matters. Permanent decisions deserve careful consideration, and nobody should feel pressured into making one while exhausted or recovering.

But offering information and giving somebody a chance to make an already-considered decision?

That’s part of good care.

The absurdity is that the whole operation can sound like somebody trying to move the last minivan off the lot before the quarterly numbers close.

And if the partner wants a vasectomy, that’s a separate procedure with its own consultation and scheduling—not a complimentary snip-and-save special performed between cutting the umbilical cord and checking the tire pressure.

Although I guarantee there’s a dealership somewhere that would offer it if they could charge extra for nitrogen in the tires.

But the sales pitch doesn’t stop at the reproductive finish line.

Oh, no.

Now we’ve got to fuel the new asset.

And this is where the owner’s manual starts getting interesting.

Human milk has long been recognized as an excellent source of infant nutrition. We’ve got entire medical specialties dedicated to understanding how it works, how babies receive it, and what happens when the equipment refuses to cooperate.

Because sometimes it does.

Sometimes milk production is insufficient. Sometimes feeding is painful. Sometimes medical circumstances interfere. Sometimes the family simply needs another arrangement.

That’s why we have formula, donor milk, lactation consultants, pediatricians, and a whole assortment of modern tools intended to keep the tiny new customer alive.

You’d think that would be the end of the discussion.

Naturally, humanity has found a way to turn it into another argument about the owner’s manual.

Enter chestfeeding.

Now, depending on the context, that word can simply describe feeding a baby from the chest without assuming anything about the parent’s identity.

Fine.

Language changes. Terminology evolves. We update the manual.

But the discussion sometimes wanders into induced lactation, where someone who hasn’t recently given birth may attempt to stimulate milk production through pumping, hormonal changes, and medical supervision.

Which is a real thing.

And, medically speaking, fascinating.

But my brain doesn’t immediately picture a clinical research paper.

No.

My brain pictures an airborne veteran who’s spent a decade treating his spinal column like a lawn dart, sitting in a recliner with a nursing pillow and an industrial-grade breast pump.

There’s a motivational poster on the wall.

ADAPT. IMPROVISE. LACTATE.

Somebody walks in.

“How’s the mission going, Sergeant?”

“Negative milk production. Requesting additional logistical support.”

“Have you tried changing your socks and taking 800 milligrams of ibuprofen?”

“THAT’S WHAT THEY TOLD ME WHEN I BROKE MY BACK.”

And there I am, attempting to produce dinner through sheer military discipline, a questionable relationship with my endocrine system, and the belief that anything can be accomplished if the PowerPoint presentation is sufficiently aggressive.

Meanwhile, the baby’s looking at me like I just tried to hand him an MRE.

Look, I’m not here to tell people how to feed their children or what language they’re allowed to use.

I’m asking a different question.

Does the infrastructure actually support the choices we’re so enthusiastic about discussing?

Because it’s one thing to celebrate another option.

It’s another thing to make sure the option works, is medically appropriate, and actually feeds the kid.

Which brings me to the alternative milk economy.

Suppose somebody needs donor human milk.

Where does it come from? How is it screened? Who pays for processing, storage, testing, and distribution? Who qualifies to receive it?

Milk banks do exist, and many rely on screened donations. Processing and safety measures cost money.

Fair enough.

But from the consumer’s perspective, the whole arrangement can still look suspiciously like the plasma center’s distant cousin.

“Good morning. What are we donating today?”

“Blood?”

“Third door on the left.”

“Plasma?”

“Second floor.”

“Platelets?”

“Across the hall.”

“Milk?”

“Well, congratulations. You’ve unlocked the dairy expansion pack.”

At this rate, I’m expecting somebody to introduce a loyalty card.

Donate ten ounces of any one thing, get a generic cookie and a complimentary oil change.

Donate twenty ounces and get a corporate Gold Card. You know the kind that is only accepted at a long list of places that no one has heard of.

And before anybody starts selling subscriptions to the human torso, I’d like to point out that we already have a perfectly functional example of what happens when basic necessities become vulnerable to complicated supply chains.

Infant formula.

A product specifically designed to feed babies when breastfeeding isn’t possible, sufficient, or chosen.

A perfectly legitimate means of infant nutrition.

And yet we’ve managed to create a market where a parent can walk into a pharmacy, find the formula behind a locked display, and discover that the particular brand their baby tolerates costs approximately one monthly payment on a used Honda Civic.

Remember the formula shortages?

Parents searching stores, checking websites, calling relatives, and comparing inventories like they were trying to locate ammunition during a deployment.

“Negative contact at Walmart.”

“Target’s dry.”

“Costco reports two units, but they’re behind enemy lines.”

“Send Specialist Happy Feet. He’s got the SD card and the loyalty membership.”

How does a civilization build robots that fold laundry, satellites that navigate the planet, and refrigerators capable of telling us we’re out of eggs, yet still manage to make feeding a baby feel like a scavenger hunt?

Somebody needs to check the maintenance records.

And if you decide the biological manufacturing process isn’t for you, there’s another department entirely.

Adoption.

A perfectly reasonable idea.

There are children who need stable, loving homes. There are adults who want to provide them.

You’d think connecting the two would be a fairly straightforward objective.

Of course not.

Welcome to the family-acquisition office.

Please take a number.

Now, the processes differ substantially. Private domestic adoption can be extraordinarily expensive. Adoption through foster care is often much less costly, although it comes with its own legal requirements, uncertainty, and responsibilities.

And those safeguards exist for important reasons. We’re talking about children, not surplus inventory from a government auction.

But reasonable protections and unreasonable bureaucracy are not the same thing.

We should be capable of protecting children without making qualified families feel as though they’re applying for permission to purchase a classified military aircraft.

“Do you have a stable home?”

“Yes.”

“Income?”

“Yes.”

“References?”

“Yes.”

“Background check?”

“Completed.”

“Excellent. Now we’re going to need your third-grade report card, the serial number from your first microwave, and a notarized statement from your childhood imaginary friend.”

“Can I at least meet the kid?”

“Sir, please don’t rush the process. We’re still reviewing your microwave.”

And there it is.

The magnificent, multi-departmental absurdity of the human meat suit.

We can manufacture a person, but the instructions are scattered across sixteen offices.

We can discuss every conceivable reproductive choice, but families still struggle to access consistent care.

We can develop remarkable medical technologies, but parents still worry about affording the most basic supplies.

We can build systems to protect children, but those same systems sometimes become so difficult to navigate that the people trying to help need professional assistance just to understand the application.

I’m not arguing that medicine should stop advancing.

Quite the opposite.

I’m arguing that advancement should improve the experience of being human, not merely expand the list of things we’re expected to navigate.

If we’ve learned anything from the last few thousand years of civilization, it’s that the human body is already an extraordinarily complicated machine.

The spine wears out.

The knees develop suspicious noises.

The digestive system occasionally declares independence.

And somewhere around thirty-five, you discover that sleeping incorrectly can result in a three-day recovery operation.

I know.

I spent years jumping out of perfectly functional aircraft.

My owner’s manual now consists of physical therapy, heating pads, and an increasingly personal relationship with magnesium.

I’m not interested in returning the chassis.

I just want the dealership to acknowledge that the suspension was never designed for this kind of abuse.

And perhaps that’s the bigger problem.

We spend an enormous amount of time arguing over who gets to operate the machinery, what terminology belongs on the dashboard, and which optional accessories ought to be installed.

Meanwhile, the customer is standing there holding a newborn, wondering whether anybody remembered to include the fucking instructions.

Maybe the next great advancement in healthcare won’t be another revolutionary procedure or another administrative department.

Maybe it’ll be making the existing systems understandable, affordable, and accessible to the people they’re supposed to serve.

Because the human meat suit doesn’t come with a replacement warranty.

You get one chassis.

Take care of it.

Read the fine print.

Ask questions.

And remember that sometimes the person offering you another option really is trying to help you make an informed decision while the timing and cost still make sense.

Not every recommendation is an upsell.

Not every protocol is a conspiracy.

Sometimes the mechanic knows what he’s doing.

And sometimes he’s trying to sell you premium blinker fluid.

Learn the difference.

Because at the end of the day, even if the system is completely broken, at least we look good pointing it out.

This has been a rant on reproductive plumbing, industrial lactation, tactical milk production, infant formula, adoption paperwork, questionable suspension systems, and the world’s least reassuring dealership.

Until the next ID ten tee error.

If this kept you from scrolling on by, please consider letting your automated bot leave a “heart” and subscribe for more weekend perspectives.

And speaking of owner’s manuals, somebody should probably check the one we wrote for the entire country.

Because apparently, the warranty dates back to 1776.

Tomorrow: The Preamble Paradox.