I am made from sixty, and I make something from sixty. Who am I?

The man who made it, didn’t want it. The man who bought it, didn’t need it. The man who used it, didn’t know it. What is it?

Whatever isn't beneath us. Is that not the answer? No? Then what was the question?

My mother had little negativity; my father, a lot. They had individual toxicity, but together, did not. They taught me the right and wrong way to be, but little is more brittle than me. What am I?

In my family, Mom can eat any plate she sees, but her babies cannot eat more than two. Dad only ever has one plate, while each pet must have exactly three. Uncles eat in hallways and aunties eat on stairways. What is my family name?