American Idle
Britney Spear's 'Parenting Basics'
By Vivid writer: Toby Smith
Rising unsteadily, Britney straightens a strap on her overstuffed tank top and stumbles forward, as if in a stupor, to the front of the classroom. With one hand, she grabs the doll by the ankle. Then she begins to wave it up and down, like a symphony conductor beginning Beethoven's Ninth
Posted: 21/12/2007
"OK, girls, shut up."
In September 2007 Britney Spears was ordered to attend parenting counseling, after her child custody battles were heard in court.
Though I am a parent, I have never had the opportunity to attend such a class - nor was I ever threatened with jail time if I didn't -as Britney Spears was.
For Britney to wind up here, you may recall, she allegedly did all sorts of unusual things in the presence of her two small sons. Things such as reaching her arm up inside a vending machine to jerk out six bags of potato chips. Or showing her boys how to mix frozen daiquiris. Or taking them target shooting with a rocket propelled grenade launcher.
For the first few minutes of the class I'm not able to recognise Britney who, it turns out, is seated in a corner. Sapphire-studded Tiffany sunglasses cover most of her face and a Red Man Chewing Tobacco bandanna blankets her head. She is wearing a two-sizes-too-small, lime-green tank top that bears the words "Screw Me? Screw You!" Only when she bends down to scratch a bare, shoeless foot do I realise that this is Brit. On her exposed left hip I spot the tell-tale tattoo: a three-headed cobra wrapped around a large, flaming skull and the word "Gotcha!"
Our parenting instructor - the "OK, girls, shut up" voice - is Miss Francine Weathers. She is about 60, and she looks exactly as I've always imagined the driver of a South American prison bus to look: graying hair pulled tightly back, shoulders the size of a door frame, eyes dead as a graveyard.
"Tonight," Miss Weathers says, "we're going to learn how to pick up a baby."
Someone in the class laughs.
Miss Weathers scowls. "You think this is funny? You won't be laughing when I sell your child to the circus."
Silence quickly settles upon the classroom.
Miss Weathers continues: "Can anyone tell me the correct way to pick up a baby?"
"You use your hands," says a woman in a Hell's Angels jacket.
Miss Weathers sighs. "But how?"
"What I do," says a young mother in baseball cap turned backwards, "is scoop up my kid. You know, like, say, you seen some dog crap on the sidewalk, and you wanna like, scoop it up so's you don't drop it 'fore you toss it in the trash can."
Reaching down, Miss Weathers lifts a satchel and places it on top of the desk in front of her. From inside the bag she pulls out an unclothed plastic doll.
"Someone here want tell me how to pick up this baby?" When no one answers, Miss Weathers says, "How about you, there in the corner?" She points to Britney, who has put her head down on her desk and is snoring, rather loudly.
A woman with green hair gives Brit a poke.
"What the fuck?" Britney responds groggily, looking up.
"Get up here and show the class how you would pick up this baby."
Rising unsteadily, Britney straightens a strap on her overstuffed tank top and stumbles forward, as if in a stupor, to the front of the classroom. With one hand, she grabs the doll by the ankle. Then she begins to wave it up and down, like a symphony conductor beginning Beethoven's Ninth. At what might be a crescendo point, she bangs the doll down on the top of Miss Weathers's desk. When she does so, the doll's head breaks off and bounces across the room like a tennis ball.
As a journalist who has seen most of life's calamitous events, including wars, earthquakes and a custard-eating contest, I have never witnessed such a horrific scene.
Miss Weathers's scowl turns into a sickened look. "Get out of here, now," she snaps at Britney. "I don't want to see your face again."
With that, Brit stomps out of the classroom, slamming the door as she disappears in her bare feet. I want to follow her, but I am too stunned to get up. Instead, I decide to wait and see what happens next.
About a minute later, a mother in front of me yawns, then announces, "Guess she's under a lot of stress. I hear her new Bentley convertible ain't the shade of yellow she ordered."
I nod, suddenly reminded of the great annoyances that life can bring.
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