In a tale that continues to blur the lines between tech genius, eccentric philosopher, and obsessive patriarch, Elon Musk's former lover Ashley St. Clair has revealed details that paint a deeply personal and controversial picture of the Tesla and SpaceX CEO. Beyond the headlines of billion-dollar rockets and X.com power moves lies a far more private world—one where Musk’s influence over the women who bear his children extends not only to legal contracts and financial arrangements but also to the very method by which his children are born.
At the heart of this storm is a demand so unorthodox it has raised eyebrows across social media and tabloids alike: Elon Musk insisted that Ashley St. Clair, the mother of his 14th publicly known child, deliver their son via caesarean section and not allow him to be circumcised. The reason?
According to St. Clair, Musk believes that babies born via caesarian section have larger brains, and that circumcision is an outdated practice that should be avoided. These aren’t just medical preferences—these are expressions of a worldview that intertwines Musk’s quest for human advancement with an obsessive control over biology, legacy, and evolution.
Ashley St. Clair, a conservative influencer known for her sharp tongue and political leanings, went public earlier this year with the news that she had given birth to Musk’s son—Romulus—conceived during a romantic liaison in early 2024. The name itself, drawn from Roman mythology, hints at Musk’s fascination with civilization, power, and origin stories.
But behind that grand narrative lies a woman who says she was pushed to comply with intimate decisions dictated not by medical professionals, but by the father of her child—and one of the most powerful men on Earth.
St. Clair refused both demands. A practicing Jew, she had planned for a natural birth and wanted to honor religious customs. For her, Musk’s instructions felt more like commands than suggestions.
They weren’t framed as co-parenting discussions; they were issued, she claims, through his infamous fixer Jared Birchall—a man who has become the whispering emissary between Musk and many of the women linked to his growing circle of children.
This isn’t the first time Musk’s approach to reproduction has made headlines. He has been vocal about his fear of population collapse and his belief that intelligent people have a duty to reproduce prolifically.
But according to St. Clair, Musk’s philosophy on child-rearing doesn’t end with simply making babies—it extends to how they are born, how they are raised, and how much influence he can exert from afar.
Musk’s C-section theory, bizarre as it may sound to some, was presented to St. Clair as a way to enhance the child’s brain development. Musk, a longtime proponent of neural technology and human enhancement through companies like Neuralink, allegedly told associates he believes cesarean deliveries avoid the compression of the skull during a vaginal birth—thus allowing the brain to develop larger, unimpeded.
While no scientific consensus supports this claim, it aligns with Musk’s pattern of challenging conventional wisdom in favor of speculative logic rooted in futurist thinking.
Circumcision, too, was something Musk reportedly opposed with fervor. Though the practice remains widespread in certain cultures and religions, Musk argued against it on the basis of bodily autonomy and evolutionary reasoning.
According to St. Clair’s account, Musk viewed it as unnecessary trauma inflicted on infants for outdated cultural reasons—another act of inherited tradition he sees as incompatible with his vision of the future human.
What’s most striking in St. Clair’s account is not just the nature of Musk’s requests, but the environment in which they were delivered. While she was in labor, Birchall allegedly visited her with paperwork asking her to omit Musk’s name from the baby’s birth certificate.
It was at this same moment Musk’s birth-related demands loomed in the background, pressed upon her when she was most vulnerable, even as she resisted them.
This wasn’t simply a disagreement between co-parents. St. Clair says it felt like a test of loyalty—that Musk viewed compliance with his birth preferences as part of a larger bargain. Notably, Musk offered her $15 million and $100,000 per month to remain silent about the child's paternity and their relationship until the child turned 21.
The birth method and circumcision ban were bundled within this broader framework of influence, secrecy, and control. And although she refused to sign the gag order, she did omit his name from the certificate under legal pressure—while retaining her right to speak and eventually go public.
The larger implication is staggering: Elon Musk isn’t just building electric cars or space colonies—he’s building his own carefully curated bloodline, and he wants that line to meet his personal standards from the moment of birth. That includes how the baby enters the world, what parts of tradition are preserved or rejected, and who gets to speak about it publicly.
According to St. Clair, Musk’s desire for control didn’t end at biology. He wanted her to relocate to an Austin “compound” where other mothers of his children reportedly reside, raising what insiders have dubbed his “kid legion.” Shivon Zilis, a Neuralink executive and one of Musk’s other known partners, is said to live there and act as a kind of stabilizing presence in Musk’s ecosystem.
Grimes, in contrast, has rejected this setup entirely and remains publicly critical of Musk’s parenting.
Through it all, Jared Birchall looms like a shadowy figure in a dystopian novel—delivering Musk’s expectations, brokering negotiations, and managing Musk’s sprawling reproductive strategy. He allegedly told St. Clair that “privacy and confidentiality is the top of the list in every aspect of [Musk’s] life”, and that “when people do good work, the benefits flow.”
This quote may refer to motherhood as “work” in Musk’s world—a chilling interpretation that reduces parenting to contractual performance.
Even as she resisted Musk’s demands, St. Clair said the billionaire sometimes showed a softer side. He sent her flowers for Mother’s Day and her birthday. They arranged playdates between Romulus and her older son. She even met Musk’s mother, Maye.
But beneath the gestures of affection, she says, was a pattern of manipulation—culminating in a dramatic reduction of child support once she went public with the story. Musk slashed her payments by 60%, she claims, and has since refused contact.
In a particularly revealing moment, St. Clair recalled sending Musk a selfie during her pregnancy. His response? “I want to knock you up again.”
The line, delivered with casual bravado, underscores what many critics have come to suspect: that Musk sees reproduction not just as personal, but as a mission—one that he intends to lead with calculated precision, from conception to delivery.
As the custody battle continues in New York courts, the filings—though now sealed—hint at a judge growing increasingly sympathetic to St. Clair’s plight. But the larger story transcends legal documents. It’s a glimpse into a billionaire’s attempt to engineer his legacy one child at a time, with science fiction logic and a Silicon Valley sense of detachment.
Ashley St. Clair’s refusal to comply with Musk’s birth demands wasn’t just an act of medical autonomy—it was a rejection of a system that asked her to become a vessel in someone else’s futuristic blueprint. And in speaking out, she has illuminated a pattern that may yet be unfolding behind more closed doors, sealed files, and unnamed birth certificates.
What began as an affair has become a war over power, identity, and a child’s right to exist outside the shadow of someone else’s grand design.
-1742653910-q80.webp "Ivanka Trump is Beautiful but Far from Weak – Don’t Mess with Her, She Knows This")
