Celebrity parenting: the new spectator sport

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Tier 2: Your Run-of-the-Mill Train Wreck
Tier 2 parents are the most likely to be splashed across the tabloids. You almost have to admire their public-relations genius. Tier 2 parents are adept at walking a fine line — making the public fear for their child’s safety just enough to snag some coverage, but not so much that anyone will drive to Malibu and attempt a mercy kidnapping. Tier 2 parents take the baby to clubs because “he really likes the music.” They subject him to low-carb baby food and obscure holistic remedies. Confounded by the numerous buckles on car seats, they tell the kid to “hold on tight.”

In later years, Tier 2s buy their children provocative clothing and encourage them to consider a rotating cast of backup dancers, groupies and experimental artists to be their “aunts” and “uncles.”

Tier 2 Members: Britney and Kevin (God love ya), Sharon and Ozzy Osbourne and the dynamic parenting duo of Cher and Gregg Allman (that Elijah Blue is one wacky kid).

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Tier 2 Products: Nicole Richie, Kimberly Stewart and, of course, the irrepressible Carney Wilson.

Tier 3: Your Children Are Doomed
Tier 3 parents are the reason the bar on celebrity parenting is set so very low. These parents alternately dangle their babies over balconies or dress them up in head-to-toe bodysuits made of felt. Tier 3 parents approach hungry crocodiles with an infant in one hand and a dead chicken in the other. Tier 3 parents call Valium “mother’s little helper,” and mean it.

At some point in your life you will encounter a Tier 3 child on a dark street and, for no reason other than a gut feeling, you will cross to the other side.

Tier 3 Members: Michael Jackson, “Crocodile Hunter” Steve Irwin and a Tier 3 so classic it feels like a cheap shot: Judy Garland.

Tier 3 Products: Coincidence? Best buddies Michael Jackson and Liza “with a Z” Minnelli.

It’s too soon to tell how the latest crop of celebrity children will turn out. But if Extreme Celebrity Parent Judging is the craze it promises to be, we can expect every scrape, lost tooth and diaper rash not only to be heavily documented, but obsessively scrutinized. (Not to mention the exposés in years to come when, if history is any indication, celebrity children come of a certain age, steal cars, marry in Vegas, and launch ill-advised music careers.)

So, welcome home, baby Suri. Baby Brangelina, we’ll keep the light on for you. I’m sure you’ll both be just fine. And if you’re not? Just listen closely: That sound you hear is a thousand child-development experts, calling their agents and begging to talk about it on daytime television.

Paige Ferrari is a freelance writer in New York City. She blogs at make-you-hmmm.blogspot.com.

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