Then you see the unglamorous part of it, the anti-Catherine Zeta-Jones of parenting, with none other than our favorite pop tart Britney Spears. Pictures surfaced in tabloids of her crying at the Ritz-Carlton, perhaps breaking down from the media’s constant glare on her parenting skills. And now, not yet shedding off the baby weight from her eldest, she is again with child.
You see, celebrities – aside from Angelina, who’s too hot to care for publicity stunts – use babies to deflect attention from the more real things in their lives, such as a failing marriage, a downhill career, a junkie gay husband, a lack of things to do – or did I say failing career already? In real life, babies become us. We’re stuck with them, with no personal assistants, and perhaps just a fantasy of maybe a kindergarten boarding school in Switzerland.
I’ve seen many real-life couples trying to Kobe it (fix a marriage) by having a baby instead of an eight-carat rock. They seem to think Baby Dior dresses and Burberry prams will deflect the reality of their problems. Of course, it’s on those late, late nights when even wolves are asleep that you – your poor nerves going cold turkey from vodka for more than a year while cleaning poo and milking the kid – realize what a mess it all is. Babies don’t solve things. They are supposed to be there when both parents stop sucking their thumbs.
Bill Murray said it perfectly in Lost in Translation. He said that when you do have your first baby, your life as you know it will cease to be the same after your first child is born. That’s the way it should be.
I don’t know about kids and me. I seem to be very picky with them, and they with me as well. A lot cry just by smelling me. I guess babies smell fear, too. I’m not the kind of girl that just hugs every little thing in a stroller and giggle when they dribble or gag on my Gaultier dress. I like kids with flair, or as my gay uncle would say, sass, those naughty bits who have acquired a very elementary brand of wit that makes for a little Oscar Wilde-meets-Macaulay Culkin. They know they’re little and they can get away with anything, not because they cry, but because they say something so scandalous that it truly shuts you up for a good half-hour.
Then there are those dorky smart alecks that try to correct you with everything they have just learned in class. Like I’m supposed to remember every capital of every damn country or fuss about the solar system and all the stars. All the stars I know are Britney, Jessica, Lindsay, and Nicole. Of course, I lay out my ignorance of such factoids (which I did know when I was their age) on a silver platter for these dorkids to enjoy. It’s much cheaper than toys. I don’t worry much. People do get stupider with age. Who remembers anything about high school math, accountants not included? Children, I realize, are the smartest people around, and the most manipulative, too, and all by pure instinct. It’s actually quite amazing. Plus at a certain age, they can learn five languages at once.
However, some take parenting to a quite stupendous level. I know a sophisticated couple that feeds their toddler sushi and foie gras. It’s charming until, of course, I’m at the table with them and baby Benjamin is throwing a thousand-per-person cut of liver in my direction and crying hysterically because there isn’t enough wasabi – or too much maybe, he can’t talk yet, you know – in his sushi. I don’t even know how healthy that is for kids. There are places for grownups, such as first-class cabins in airplanes and Michelin-starred restaurants. I once was flying first class (thanks, Dad!) to the US, and this baby knocked over my Mimosa and cried THE WHOLE F@#$%^& TIME. Unless it’s a goddamn emergency or I’m hitching in someone’s private plane, have some consideration. We pay mucho dinero for the comfort, and crying babies are unfortunately not on the menu. I stopped feeling bad for myself though when I saw the weary mom drugging her spawn with cough syrup to knock it out. Eww, child services, please.
I don’t really dislike children; I’m just choosy with them. We have the liberty to be selective of our adult friends, just as we are with our littler friends, although, any child, a bore or not, should be treated with utmost care. No matter how annoying a child can be, and no matter how childish you may be, you have to find it in you (that part of you that still isn’t sullied by the internal rot that has taken over your existence) to be the better person. And never give your friend’s kids booze, so you can be the cool aunt or uncle.
I’m pretty petrified about having my own though. The initial crisis of getting fat, stretch marks, and the nauseating process of giving birth make me run, run, run. I saw it in health class in high school, shock unwatchable barf level, up there with the rape scene of Irreversible. Clearly, I’m not yet in that miracle-of-birth phase where everything, even the blood, fat, and pain, is supposed to mean something. A lot of us are still in there, so while it still hasn’t hit you yet, get a dog (or a plant if you know in your heart that you are retarded) if you feel like nurturing something.
Then, there’s the question of what happens when they are out there in the world and everything they do is my responsibility. What if they grow up to become porn stars or serial killers? I will certainly have had something to do with that despite my best efforts. Every divorce, financial crisis or criminal charge will be traced back to my parental skills. No one will judge you more than your child. However, no matter how screwed up you are, no one can also quit you like your child. Even if kids try to divorce their parents – unlike their lovers, parents will be present in some way in their lives forever.
I’m definitely not ready to have kids. I’m still waiting for some enlightenment. Until then, I’m wondering if those adorable Dior dresses will fit my chihuahua Bruno, who by the way has issues because he does not think he’s a d-o-g. If I can’t get my dog to be stable, what more with a mini me?