Why Is This Boy Smiling?

A lucky paparazzo once earned $250,000 for a shot of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie on vacation in Namibia. (Interestingly, "Brangelina" had already turned the tables on the celebrity photo business back in 2006 when they sold their own photos of their newborn to People for $4.1 million.) Stalking and shooting and selling famous people is big business.

But, I have a feeling that whoever took today's hottest picture of a star didn't make quite that much. Google "Bieber mug shot" and you'll come up with 9.2 million hits. 

"Say cheese."

My teenage daughter was never a big fan (a "Bieber Fever Belieber Believer" or whatever Justin's groupies are called). Sure, we watched the tribute Glee episode together, but otherwise, she could take him or leave him. So it isn't as though we're emotionally vested in the young man's health and well-being. Still, every time these stories pop up in my Facebook feed, I get a little more disgusted.

Let's take a quick look at some of Bieber's accomplishments, shall we?

Bieber is the youngest recording artist ever to have five number one albums.

His "Baby" made history as the top-selling digital single, receiving Diamond status by the Recording Industry Association of America after going platinum twelve times.

Never Say Never, Bieber's concert documentary earned more than $99 million in worldwide box office.

Whether you like his particular brand of pouty pop or not, the boy has proven himself from a sales perspective. He's a big thing with lots of fans (63,695,453 on Facebook alone). And, based on his most recent ... er ... accomplishments, he truly does "believe" in all his own hype. For example, and this is all within the last month:

Bieber is under investigation for "egging" his neighbor's house, causing $20,000 in damages (all right, how big were these eggs?). 

When the police arrived to search his house, they found drugs. They originally said it was cocaine, but it appears that it was only a form of ecstasy known as "Molly." (Phew, what a relief.)

He recently texted full-frontal pictures of his penis to on-again/off-again girlfriend Selena Gomez with such endearing comments as: "Cum on, don't tell me you don't miss this," and later, "Can't hear you cuz of all my cash, babe! You’re only famous cuz of me … Go f*ck someone else. Keep that talentless p*ssy away from me!” 

And he wonders why she's off-again?

Earlier this week, he visited a number of strip clubs in Miami to distribute 75,000 $1 bills. And this morning, he was arrested.

My, my they do add up. Today's stunts comprise their own list. Let's see, illegally drag racing. Driving under the influence. Resisting arrest. "What the f*ck are you doing?" he demanded, prior to being cuffed. Apparently, he has decided that he is above the law.

So what's next for young Justin? A new haircut maybe? Another number one album? Or a continued spiral down? Things don't look good. In fact, he makes Miley Cyrus look positively Disney, doesn't he? As a mom, I hope he can get his act back together. But, I have my doubts. 

Maybe I'll just wait for the E! True Hollywood Story. At the rate he's going, it should be out by ... oh ... next week.

Those Were the Days, My Friend

When I hear the mother of a much younger child — like a baby or toddler — complain about their stress and fatigue, I can't help but smile. 

"Sister," I think to myself, "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

Not that I've forgotten those early days. I remember them all right. I remember checking to make sure my sleeping daughter was breathing. I remember tormenting myself over her first eye infection. I remember crying through a 2:00 a.m. feeding, a sloppy emotional bag of exhaustion and postpartum.

"She hates me," I sobbed to a coworker the next day.

"No, she doesn't hate you," he said knowingly. "She will hate you. But, she doesn't hate you now."

This man, you see, was the father of a teenage girl.

Really, now that I look back, what was all the fuss about? Basically, our job as the mother of an infant is to feed them, burp them, change their diapers and get them to sleep. Along the way you have to support their little head and change them from one adorable outfit into another — six or seven times a day. Their tiny hands curl around your finger and (whether it's just gas or not) they look up at you and smile.

Oh sure, some days are tougher than others. At six months, after I nearly fell asleep in the Sumner Tunnel on my way to work, we finally gave in and tried the dreaded "Ferber Method" so she would sleep through the night. Basically, you teach them how to "self-sooth" by letting them cry for five minutes, comforting them, then letting them cry for ten, then twenty, then thirty, etc. etc. etc. Forty-eight hours later, she was all set, and her mother (that would be me) was permanently traumatized.

But even on those endless nights, life was easier than I realized. If I could go back in time and counsel my younger self, I would say, "Stop. Breathe. Enjoy this."

I'd say, "Sister, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

Here's a short list, in no particular order, of the things that keep me up at night these days:

• Grades. She's in ninth grade, that's freshman year high school. Suddenly, there are hours upon hours of homework. Suddenly, there are tests and quizzes and mid-terms, oh my! Suddenly, good grades count. (And, just as suddenly, they are much harder to come by.)

• Cutting. Sadly, I don't mean cutting class. I mean cutting one's arms (or legs or God knows what else). It bothers me that some of my daughter's friends are doing this. It bothers me that she even knows about such a thing.

• Online safety. Texting, sexting, Instagram, Tumblr, Skype, Snapchat. Just a couple of years ago, we were concerned about letting our then tween daughter have a Facebook page. That was so yesterday!

• Mean Girls. This topic comes at me from both sides sometimes. Within the same week I can be comforting my daughter as the victim of a particularly nasty encounter and trying to help her see how she herself might be perceived as mean.

And last, but not least, there's the time I spend missing and mourning my baby. The days when that baby, practically grown now, barely mutters a single pleasant word to me. When I can tell that I am no longer her bestest, most favorite person. In fact, I'm more like her least favorite, most annoying, barely bearable person.

We used to play that game ... "I love you more. "No, I love you more." "No, I love you more." "No, I love you more."

Well, for now at least, I win. I love her more.

A Loving Stranger's Note

This evening, I found a list of the "26 Moments That Restored Our Faith in Humanity" on BuzzFeed. 

Most of them were pretty humbling: a doctor who opened his office with free health care for Hurricane Sandy victims; a young bride who married her quadriplegic veteran fiancé; a soccer team that let its manager, a student with Down Syndrome, start a match. There were people who saved animals, people who helped the homeless, people who defended injustice. Random acts of compassion and kindness and care.

Then, I saw this note. I was sitting alone with my laptop in our dining room — my husband was upstairs napping between our Christmas party commitments; my teen daughter was working on her book review of The Handmaid's Tale — so no one was really within listening range. But, I couldn't help myself.

"Oh!" I said aloud and my eyes began to water.

Here's why:

Wow, does this resonate for me. My own "wee one" is not so very "wee" anymore. And, I'm sorry to report that snuggling left the picture many many moons ago, I'm afraid. Along with bedtime stories and holding hands at crosswalks.

What a lovely, generous act. (I only wish I had thought of it first.)