Reproduction of the rich and famous

Hollywood moms and dads are, at least according to legend, monsters. They provide us with deliciously wicked examples of parenting run amok -- the hapless Britney Spears, for instance, who, carrying a drink that most mistakenly assumed was alcoholic, nearly dropped her baby on the sidewalk. They also abandon their infants to a retinue of strangers, hired hands with dubious credentials and ample bosoms, while they themselves selfishly pursue their own careers, a situation remarkably similar, indeed, identical, to another instance of neglect: our own.

Virtually all parenting, that of the rich as well as that of the poor, is now delegated to a special class of professionals, whether it be nannies or day-care workers. The delectation with which we relish the culpable negligence of self-serving egotists who care more about their Cessnas and swimming pools than they do about their kids originates in the fears all parents share about juggling their work and family lives.

A dilemma endemic to the two-career household is stoking the fires of gossip about celebrity pregnancies, which afford insecure moms and dads, as tethered to their jobs as any movie star, an irresistible opportunity for back-seat parenting. Electronic bulletin boards are rife with postings that speak disparagingly of "Shitney" Spears, a "hoochie mama" and a "sex freak" who "has a very low selfasteam of herself" and who needs to "take court ordered parenting classes." That "psychotic flaming queen from hell," Tom Cruise, by the same token, is widely rumored to have defied doctors' warnings and, through gratuitous exposure to ultrasound, disfigured his daughter, who, according to various bulletin boards, has a fiery red birthmark on her forehead, a cleft palate, or scoliosis. His adherence to the Scientologists' practice of silent birth led many to request that he mind his own business, suggesting to hospital staff that, while Katie Holmes writhes speechlessly in the delivery room, "they should shove a watermelon up Tom's A** and tell him to stay quiet." The guiltier we become about the dereliction of our own duties as mothers and fathers, the more irresistible it is to take potshots at the child-rearing styles of the stars.

They are the worst of parents but now, according to recent media coverage, they are also the best. Many have successfully shrugged off their sinister reputations as infanticidal careerists and emerged as exemplary parents, who effortlessly coordinate their work and family lives, setting up cribs in their dressing rooms and trailers, extolling the virtues of Snuglis and Baby Bjorns, and recommending in Good Housekeeping and McCall's ways to "multitask" and eliminate rashes with bleach-free diapers. As they assume an unprecedented role as parental paragons, we are being deprived of the satisfaction of watching avarice and megalomania destroy their humanity, rendering them unfit to accomplish what we view as mankind's highest mission, its biological destiny, the propagation of the species.

This new image of the celebrity super-parent is uniquely damaging to the self-esteem of the average mom and dad, particularly in light of people's receptiveness during pregnancy to the often unsolicited advice of family and friends. Radical changes in a woman's body inspire tremendous fear and insecurity, which can be assuaged only through the reassurances of others who have undergone the same experience. Information about everything from breast pumps to epidurals was once transmitted locally, from generation to generation, mother to daughter, or friend to friend, but in the 20th century, the source of authority began to shift to popular culture, specifically, to the self-help guru, who offered more than just standard advice on clean towels and hot water. Now an entirely new mentoring system is emerging, one in which the expert is increasingly the star, who is not only charismatic and glamorous but spectacularly well-informed, a fount of wisdom about the arcana of teething, morning sickness, doulas and post-natal Pilates classes. Christy Turlington insists on the importance of using only organic or environmentally friendly shampoos and lotions on one's infant, while Felicity Huffman kneads the tired muscles of her two young daughters with Burt's Bee apricot massage oil. Information is no longer available exclusively through local channels. National, indeed, global ones -- popular culture itself -- are becoming the new surrogate |ber mom cum friend.

We mimic them and they, in turn, mimic us. Celebrity parents are constantly minimizing the importance of their fame and fortune for what they refer to time and again as "the role of a lifetime" and "[my] most exciting job to date," as if wiping dirty behinds and sniveling noses were as challenging and remunerative as $10,000,000 picture deals. They denigrate their careers as actors and musicians as little more than fortuitously lucrative hobbies, professing to be parents first and foremost and assuring us that "[my] priorities are very clear -- family comes first" and "if you took away all the money, I would rather have happy kids."

Such ritualized self-humanizing is the penance the mass audience exacts from them for their affluence, which we condone, albeit begrudgingly, only if they throw themselves wholeheartedly into the dirty business of "diaper duty" and hector us with passionate avowals that they are just like us, humble parents struggling to do their best for their kids with the resources available to them, namely, two nannies, a cook, a limo driver and a live-in housekeeper. Children have become a necessary accessory of fame in a democracy that worships archaic hierarchies of rank and power as much as it despises them. Infants throwing up on Armani suits and peeing on Chanel jackets help quell the feelings of resentment we experience at seeing these cynosures amass fortunes entirely incommensurate with their talent and intelligence.

But even as they protest that they are just like us, that their fame is meaningless to them, that they would abandon everything for the sake of their children, they prove that they are not at all like us, that they couldn't care less about the vexed question of coordinating their work and family lives. Most people do not have the luxury of jettisoning their careers or even of speaking lightly of such a grim possibility, which, in all but the most exceptional cases, would result in almost certain bankruptcy. Only the fabulously rich can entertain such a desperate eventuality, even in a frivolously rhetorical way. Average hourly workers know that if they did indeed put their families before their jobs their children would starve or end up in a shelter, a public housing project or the foster care system.

Celebrities, by contrast, have the luxury of really and truly sacrificing their professions for the sake of their kids, even if virtually none of them avail themselves of this heroic option but, their protestations of uxoriousness notwithstanding, blithely cast aside half a dozen husbands and wives who end up issuing restraining orders and garnishing their wages. They assert their privilege in the very act of apologizing for it, indulging in exquisite daydreams about the noble forfeiture of their wealth and their romantic banishment to the poorhouse, the mortgages to their Bel-Air mansions foreclosed, their Oscars auctioned on eBay.

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