Teeny Manolo

Based on Star Magazine’s cover, which one do you think will turn out more normal?*

I love how Star makes Shiloh look slightly indigent, despite the fact her dress probably cost upwards of $200. I applaud Angelina for her extreme risk-taking in putting her toddler in an all white dress.

And Suri seems likes she would make an excellent future movie studio boss. Heck, her dad will probably just buy her one for her 16th birthday present.

*Normal being an extremely relative term, since both have famous, multimillionaire parents, possess more passport stamps at their age than I do, and are used to being chased by dozens of shouting men with cameras every time they step out in public.

Source: Popbytes

I was moderately good at math when I was in school, but then as always profoundly lazy and am thus, very glad that The Guardian’s Hadley Freeman, the only UK fashion writer worth following, has gone ahead and done the cold, hard calculations. Yes, as you’ve always suspected, there is a specific formula to the monetary value of celebrity baby photos.

Now, nobody here is asserting on the record that breeding is more lucrative than releasing a new album. On the record.

But…

Once A-list children made their debut at the Crillon ball in Paris; now they’re on the cover of a Richard Desmond publication - OK!, generally, not Asian Babes…

Some might think these prices are the product of a celebrity-obsessed media that believes its own self-produced hype. In fact, they are the result of a strict mathematical formula: Value of pictures = Fame of parents x glamorousness of mother during pregnancy x general attractiveness of both parents (no one wants to fork out a couple of mil for an ugly baby) + any past scandal that either parent has overcome to reach this ending + funniness of child’s name. Divide amount by two-thirds if child is adopted: the interest in celebrity kids is to see how the celebrity’s genes have fared, you see.

As if there isn’t already an obscure branch of calculus devoted to the economics of celebrity adoption. I believe that Cambridge will shortly boast the Madonna Chair in African PhotoOps.

Olive Riley, proud Australian and, at 108 reputedly the world’s oldest blogger, has died. Her last blog post described her impromptu concert for her new roommate and the nursing staff (she sang daily, and frequently posted her Greatest Hits to YouTube).

Here is Olive describing how to bathe a baby using a tin pan and a wood stove. “The trick is to keep the baby warm” eh? No, the trick is to keep the baby intact, I would think. When you think about the size of some of the pioneer families, it’s truly shocking to realize just how much hard work went into raising them.

Well, at least they’re both healthy. I think this first one is what happens when cat ladies get pregnant.

from The Guardian: by Rick Nederstigt/AFP

I could do one of these myself, but Defamer already used all the best names. Yes, the Mini-McConaughey has arrived, and has also been given the conspicuously Old Testament name of Levi Alves McConaughey, but let that not stop us. I’m not 100% sure, but I think anyone can vote on their site, although not comment. But everyone can vote here!

Keep in mind the family’s colourful tradition of nomenclature: his nephew is named Miller Lyte, and there was a consistent rumour he wanted to call the kid Bud. I’m just sayin’!

Defamer’s suggestions for names:

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Looks like somebody has issues with that whole “interspecies cooperation” thang. Captions in the comments as always.

From Floridapfae’s Flickr stream

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Oh noes!

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From the mysterious depths of the email vortisphere, via Flickr and Funnr.

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I’m just not a baby person.

I’m cool with babies and all, but I am not one of those women who will drop everything to rush over to an infant. I don’t normally coo and cuddle someone else’s child, unless I am related to or good friends with the parents.

I remember taking the Munchkin out when he was about six months to get our taxes done. The secretary saw him and immediately squealed, lurching out from behind her desk, begging to hold him. Granted, he was one cute baby, but I was a bit nonplussed that this woman, this stranger, was practically salivating at the thought of cradling him.

Since her boss was the one who was going to be saving us some money, I reluctantly allowed her. Her face suffused with joy, and she said, “I can’t help it, I am totally baby crazy. I just looooove babies.”

And when the Munchkin was young, I came across many of these women. Seemingly normal, but if their radar picked up an infant within twenty feet, their eyes would glaze over and their minds became slightly unhinged. Once that baby hit their arms, they could no longer communicate properly with the outside world. Syllables became drawn out, and nonsensical babbling/singing would come out of their mouths. There was nothing else but this infant and their momentary bond. Which is touchingly sweet, and yet is at the same time a wee bit creepy.

I sort of get it. There is something so very adorable about newborns. Those little lips! Those big eyes! The cute noises! And the helplessness! Who can resist the helplessness?

Well, I can.

I think I am happier now that my son and I can have a conversation, that he can brush his own teeth, and that diapers are a thing of the distant, distant past.