babybloomr

You know what makes me yell out loud at the TV? Literally?

That “I Know My Kid’s A Star” show on VH-1. Please tell me you’ve watched it at least once–if not, you are SO missing a cathartic opportunity to purge yourself of any latent mom-guilt you might be carrying around. I don’t care how bad you have ever blown it, or how afraid you are that your kid is screwed-up beyond all repair because of your negligible parenting skills, you will want to send yourself a large, fragrant, 1-800-FLOWERS bouquet after watching these muthas.

What is up with those women? Why would anyone in the world want their kid to be a ‘child star’? Do they not read Perez Hilton, for crying out loud? What is it about Young Hollywood that would make a mom say, “Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Sign my kid up immediately!” Every time I watch that stupid show (I know, it does beg the obvious question) I am so appalled at the naked ambition of the mothers that I can’t even fully enjoy the gross overacting of their fake-precocious, openly disrespectful, Britney-in-the-making little moppets.

The moms are seriously scary. In between assuring anyone who will listen how much they love and have sacrificed for their children, they are scathingly critical of them behind the scenes in ways that are guaranteed to suck every ounce of self-esteem right out of their fame-hungry little selves. Of course some moms are definitely worse than others, but even the least egregious parent (yeah, it started out with a father or two in the mix, but their lightweight butts got sent home early on–it’s the moms that are running this asylum!) virtually reeks of wanna-be. Several of them make sure to mention often that they have had a ‘career’ in show business, and they reel off their resume so readily that you just know they’ve got it all printed out with an 8 x 10 glossy stuffed in their purse, just in case. And OH, the scariest (and my favorite) part of the whole deal is the fact that Danny Bonaduce is the host!

YES! That Danny Bonaduce, that crazy, steroided, walking cautionary tale to stage mothers everywhere!

(Actually, come to think of it, maybe it’s not so stupid after all– maybe it’s kind of like hiring Keith Richards to host a “Dangers of Drug Use” show…) And what does it say about the moms that Danny comes off looking like the most balanced and compassionate adult on the show by comparison?!

The most entertaining trainwreck of all is a hot mess mom named Rocky, who looks like she got kicked off of the Guns and Roses tour bus in a truckstop parking lot, circa 1987. Only not as classy. The words “rode hard and put up wet” come to mind.

Anyway, Rocky has never met a mood swing she doesn’t like and even in that rental house full of vipers her naked desperation for her child to win so SHE can be noticed stands out. After pissing off every other mother and half the judges, she finally gives such an off-the-chain, psychotic rant involving vague threats of death via a plastic hanger that she must have made the producers and insurers nervous enough to send her (and her long-suffering, bewildered daughter) packing. They’re gonna miss her, though. Between displaying her pole dancing abilities in the kitchen…

and asking her daughter to let her know if her tampon string was showing because her skirt was so short…

…she added an element of humanity–ok, wait– GROSS INAPPROPRIATENESS, that’s what I meant, not humanity.

Anyway, she’s outta there, so now it’s left up to the Plastic Pageant mom, the Ruthless Acting Coach mom, the Emotionally Punishing mom, and all the rest of them to see just how far they can push their kids until somebody cracks.

See? Don’t you feel better about your mothering skills now?!

You’re welcome.

(photos courtesy of VH-1)

My fifteen year old daughter and I stood silently hand in hand in Target yesterday, transfixed in front of an entire giant wall of bathing suit parts: bra tops, bikini bottoms, halters, boy shorts, tiny triangles held together by colored string, skirted briefs and tankinis.

(OK, we weren’t really holding hands, she’d die first, but that’s the mood I’m trying to evoke, work with me.)

It’s that time of year again, when a young girl’s fancy turns to thoughts of finding the perfect bathing suit, and a young girl’s mom turns to thoughts of horror at the idea of cramming her middle-aged carcass into anything remotely resembling what is hanging all over the Wall of Total Humiliation she sees before her. I wisely opted out of even attempting to find anything to try on, and decided instead to help Madi carry the armload of suits she was gathering with both hands. We settled on about six bikinis ( not the tiny triangle ones) and headed towards the dressing rooms. We didn’t score the handicapped dressing room with its sweet, long-enough-to-stretch-out-on bench, dang it, so we had to settle for two cubicles that were facing each other flanking the big three-way mirror at the end of the row.

The next 45 minutes flew by with the speed of a mollusk. Every suit was tried on at least twice, and discussed ad nauseum –seriously, I was actually getting queasy, mostly because I was hungry and had taken an allergy pill with a glass of pomegranate juice before we left the house which apparently is not a good idea, note to self. Madi, who by the way, apparently hit the genetic lottery and has a small-framed, petite-yet-buxom, perfectly proportioned little body on her, was caught in the throes of some kind of bathing suit-induced OCD attack and was obsessing over every aspect of every suit, as only a teenage girl can. She waffled and worried, turning to and fro in front of the mirrors as she changed suits a gazillion times. Although I was the one with final veto power (and the credit card), it was still nice to be asked for my opinion, though truth be told, they all looked disturbingly fabulous on her. But lordy, it took forever– “I think this color looks pretty good with my skin tone, do you? That other one made me look kind of olive green-ish, but the top fit really well. I like the yellow one, it’s like an 8 on a scale of 1 to 10, but the black one is my favorite so far, why don’t you like it as much? I don’t think it looks too skimpy, I can pull it down. Oh wait, let me try the striped one on again– tell the truth, does it do my butt any favors?”

Just when I was contemplating using my shoe to mercifully knock myself unconscious, I felt a faint stirring waaaaaaaay back in the hallowed hallways of my memory, and I suddenly recalled an eerily similar scene that had happened when I was in high school, bathing suit shopping with my Mom. It was in Hot Springs, Arkansas, I think at J.C. Penneys, and I was standing in front of a dressing room mirror in a navy and white bathing suit that I had craftily picked out one size too large. My hope was that the bigger size bottoms wouldn’t look too skimpy to Mom and would keep her from noticing that the ‘two-piece’ was actually a real, live, (forbidden) bikini. It also came with a matching sarong cover-up which I assured her would be used a lot. I must have caught her in a weak moment, because even though she did indeed quote me the standard, we-have-this-same-discussion-every-year Bible verses about modesty, she also agreed to buy the suit. And I remember something else about that day — as I hurriedly wriggled into my clothes before she changed her mind, I caught an expression on her face that surprised me. She looked tired (as I recall, I had tried on a crapload of suits, too), but she also wore a smile as we walked up to the checkout counter, that was tinged with a little… sadness.

That summer, aided in no small part by that bikini, I first began to understand the mystery and the power of a woman’s sexuality. I didn’t have sex, for crying out loud, not even close– but I got noticed and attention was paid to me in ways that my formerly boyish figure had never inspired before. It was exciting, and flattering, and more than a little scary sometimes. It was the first time I realized that I had to be kind of careful about how I put myself out there, and that sometimes guys did indeed only want one thing. All in all, not bad information for a teenage girl to have.

We walked out of Target without a swimsuit yesterday. After exhaustively discussing every nuance of how each one looked on her, Madi decided that before she made a final decision she ought to make sure that the grass wasn’t greener someplace else, so yippee, I guess I’ve got some more shopping to look forward to. I know that we’ll eventually find one we can agree on (not that black one though, seriously, it had a little bit too much of a ‘Woo hoo, spring break ya’ll!’ vibe to it). I know that she’ll look incredible and get lots of attention from all the boys. I also now thoroughly understand that bittersweet smile on my Mom’s face, and had a rush of love and gratitude that she trusted that long-ago, 16 year old version of myself to handle everything that came with that navy and white bikini. I know Madi will handle it too; the kid’s got a good head on her shoulders. Let’s hope I do, because ready or not, it’s her turn.