reasons why celebrity moms are messing it up for all of us

My guilty pleasure is celebrity gossip, and my hands-down favourite gossip columnist is Lainey Lui. She is a great writer (even if she is just writing about Gwyneth and Scarjo’s Dress-off). She is biting, smart, and above all I love that Lainey takes on the baby bump obsession fueled by the “Minivan Majority” (as she calls them) buying up copies of People Magazine. She points out the reality of it: in the celebrity world, motherhood can indeed be a total whitewash.

Think of Nicole Richie, formerly a heroin addict, DUI convict, and Paris Hilton’s best friend. What? Who? Then there’s Angelina Jolie. Oh Angelina. She enjoyed “knife play” and screwed Billy Bob Thornton in the limo en route to the Academy Awards. Again, you totally forgot about that too, didn’t you? And let me conclude with the homewrecking Tori Spelling who now has a book about motherhood: Mommywood! You know, for regular moms who are anorexic but not really and steal other people’s husbands and have public court battles over their $300 million inheritance!

Because now that these women have answered the universe’s highest calling by squeezing a baby from between her thighs, who cares about all that?

On top of leading the unsuspecting childless masses to believe that motherhood can absolve all of one’s sins, it also teases one into believing that pregnancy is beautiful. Let me edit this for everyone. Pregnancy can be beautiful. I strongly suspect that a great number of these people do not leave  the house during the third trimester. It’s impossible that every celeb papped with a baby bump escaped nine months cankle-free. I won’t believe it.

Equally frustrating is how effortless famous people make it look. I know this is clichéd, but motherhood can be a breeze if you only have to do the fun stuff. I’ve complained before about the unhelpfulness of Tracy Hogg’s “The Baby Whisperer”, but only recently did it come to my attention that Tracy Hogg was in fact hired to move in with some of her celebrity clients (Cindy Crawford, Calista Flockhart, and Micheal J. Fox, to name a few) during the first three to seven weeks of their babies’ lives. So it turns out that Tracy did have the secret to a good night’s sleep for new parents after all: SPEND THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS AND HIRE A NANNY TO GET UP THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT FOR YOU. Genius! And to think that I bought that book. The horror.

Celebrities also have the gall to make international travel seem like a delightful thing to do with children. You see photos of Halle Berry and her disgustingly good-looking boyfriend de-planing at LAX with a smiling toddler after taking the red-eye from Sydney and think HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE? I have done my fair share of flying with a baby on my lap, and have been known to greet my husband by thrusting the stroller containing our bawling child towards him and disappearing in a frantic search for a duty-free shop that sells large bottles of Scotch. I once refrained from drinking water for a thirteen-hour day of flying because I had no idea how I would manage the logistics of airplane bathroom peeing, should the need arise. And I was nursing the whole time. Quite frankly, I shriveled. Do you think that’s how Halle’s flight went? Not only was she ushered through pesky lineups into her first class seat, but she certainly bought an extra seat for the baby (no lap sitting for little Nahla!) and for her assistant, to whom she could pass the baby when she had to pee, or just pick at her manicure. Bitch.

Then there’s Angelina (how could I complain about celebrity motherhood without 2 mentions of Angie?) currently cavorting with her brood all over Venice. Seven kids–SEVEN!–and no one is throwing a tantrum for a 17th serving of gelato, no one is hurling themselves into the canal, and no one is peeling hoof-printed gum off the cobblestones in Piazza San Marco and putting it in their mouth. There is a conspiracy afoot. Either that or the children are drugged.

So let’s talk about real celebrity worship. As soon I see one of these people:

1. nipping into their Louis Vuitton purse for a nip of Jack Daniels (old habits die hard) during a particularly heinous meltdown;
2. taking a child on public transit, or in the back half of the plane (not even emergency exit seating, that’s cheating);
3. yelling at their husband in public about whose turn it is to do the midnight shift;
4. sporting ass fat from a pregnancy that ended 18 months ago;
5. cooking their own damn dinner/pushing their own damn stroller/wiping their kids’ butts all by themselves,

I will say ALL HAIL.

Until then, they can bite me. Or at least send their assistant to do it for them.