kids

One vastly overlooked career path for mothers looking to re-enter the workforce: rock star/celebrity handlers. Although toddlers may seem so cute and innocent (mostly when asleep) the parallels to the archetypal out-of-control artist are uncanny; and perhaps enough to make even Pete Doherty blush.

Substance Abuse

Artists of all stripes have had historical struggles with the bottle or the needle and as their handler you’ll be expected to help them score and definitely provide damage control once they’re high.  OK, most toddlers are only addicted to bottles of the BPA-free variety.  But they are often high on life, and the frightening part of this is you can’t pack them off to rehab for that. As a matter of course toddlers tend to stumble, slur, and drool under the influence of absolutely nothing at all, and find endless amusement in things like spinning in place till they hit their heads on the kitchen floor.  Like girls gone wild, they’ll disrobe at a moment’s fancy.  Often in public.   Nor have they ever seen a fountain or body of water that doesn’t irresistibly beckon. And unfortunately, like the most hardcore drunks, will often wet the bed and slumber on. Not to mention you’re also already familiar with the stealth puke, which happens with alarming frequency, and will come in very handy with budding Mama Casses and bulimic starlets.

Toddlers don’t need the aid of foreign substances to channel Britney and cut off all of their hair with blunt scissors, but there are the times when sugar definitely contributes to the daily mayhem.  Anyone who has ever witnessed a group of under-5’s mainlining undiluted juice boxes will have experienced the frisson of terror that one might encounter say, when addicts meet very pure heroin.  No one can tell me sugar is not a drug and I’ve seen the ugly things toddlers will do under the influence:  the shriveled foil hull of a verboten chocolate Easter egg discarded behind the sofa, the tell-tale blue tongue of the secret jelly-bean huffer, the incessant whine of the Oreo addicted.   Even when you’ve forsworn all snacks of the evaporated-cane-juice variety, there will always be a playground groupie who will help junior cop from some unsuspecting mom.  The playground fanbase feeds the sugar junkie’s already inflated ego, finding his antics charming and funny.  They don’t get to see the ensuing meltdown once your homeboy gets back to his crib. But if you do have to score drugs in your new gig you’ll know how to play it to get maximum advantage. Like a lollipop will get your kid through the supermarket checkout line, a handful of Vicodin will get your client through the interview.  Just don’t be caught holding and keep it out of the tabloids.

Artistic Expression

Like miniature Jackson Pollocks, toddlers are the ultimate free spirits. Gargantuan ids trapped in tiny bodies yearning to break free, expose their innermost souls, jam Legos into the DVD player.  Everything is art, if you cannot see the beauty in random piles of salt or juice as medium and the kitchen floor as canvas then you might as well be the Man. It is a fine line to walk, however, as you already know.  In your new gig you’ll want to strive to be more the Patti Boyd type of muse, even though you’re Yoko at home. Also, when the work is pure crap (it is little-known and overlooked fact that even Basquiat had a brief, and misunderstood, macaroni period),  you already know how to assuage the most sensitive of egos.  “I’m sorry you didn’t get the Grammy, but hey, good job! I got you a sticker, I mean, a hooker!”

One of the first battles waged by toddlers in ther epic quest for self–expression revolves around clothing. Once they demand to dress themselves they, like rock stars, are known for their quirky sartorial  sense—the intensity of a four-year-old girl’s relationship with sparkle is enough to make Lady Gaga look Amish—and often the end result, replete with the requisite bruises and scrapes that come with a burgeoning sense of balance, is pretty much the way Amy Winehouse looks on any given day.  You already know how to roll with the flow here and you won’t even have to make public excuses that your new charge was dressed by Dad that morning.

The Truth Hurts

Like toddlers, rock stars and artistes are often known for their lack of social filters, they’ll say whatever they want and be adored and despised for it.  As the handler, you’ll be doing damage control here too.  Fortunately you’re also prepared for this.  When your new charge gets into the inevitable tiff with Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan, you’ll know what to say to smooth things over.   Well, honey, Paris didn’t mean to steal your Greek shipping magnate boyfriend, can you say you’re sorry for running her over in the parking lot?  Baby, remember friends share so can you give Lindsay some of your eightball?  She shared her Oxycontin with you last week, remember?  Let’s use our sharing and our inside-the-VIP-section voices.

Hangin’ with the Roadies

You will have no trouble relating to the lads as you are already intimately familiar with Newton’s little-known fourth law of motion: an inverse equation whereby the smaller a person in motion is, the more items they suck into their tiny vortex.

Let’s face it: P-Funk’s real mothership is pretty much any Suburban on the road with baby on board.  Diapers, wipes, tissues, snacks, bottles, formula, drinks (in the princess cup), antibacterial gel, Epi pen, hats, mittens, scarves, coats, boots, crayons, books, toys, car seats, DVDs, changes of clothing, portable potty, sling, stroller, rain cover, sunscreen, bug repellant, blankets. Ah, what the hell, throw in a forty-foot inflatable pig, go on.  Just don’t be smug because your last trip to Target didn’t disrupt flights out of Heathrow and the roadies will embrace you as one of their own.

Trashing the Hotel Room

A two-year-old in the middle of the terribles can make Courtney Love look like Martha Stewart.  Doubters may wonder: how can something so small do so much damage?  Think Ebola, my friend.  They may be pint-sized but they are preternaturally determined to have their willful way–not to mention freakishly strong. For instance, anything that can fit, and a few things that can’t, will end up in the toilet (and that’s not even with the hotel dicks on your trail).  So maybe your fancypants college degree didn’t quite prepare you for picking dried spaghetti off the ceiling, but at least in your new gig you’ll be paid for having to deal with the chaos, and, even better, paying off others to clean up the mess. Just carry a wad of $20s like you carried Wet Ones and use them with the same frequency. Clean up, clean up, everybody, everywhere!

Just remember a mom would never let you expire on the toilet (I’m talking to you, Colonel Parker) and if you did you can be sure we’d at least put in you in clean underwear before the press got wind of it. Don’t be fooled: beneath that snot-swiped sweater beats the heart of a rock ’n’ roll warrior.