Keeping up with the Kardashians

Thirty-four years ago today, my daughter Natasha was born.

Nick was born nineteen months later, and my priorities became them for, well, forever, I guess.  Motherhood is a never-ending adventure and a challenge.

And those who do it well deserve to be recognized.

And so my thoughts naturally turn to the mothers down through the ages whom I admire. Marmee from Little Women.  Self-sacrificing Stella Dallas.  Marie Curie.  Abigail Adams. All sterling examples of the virtues of motherhood.

But today I doff my hat to Kris Jenner.  I respect her.  I really do.  She has taken every piece of conventional child-rearing wisdom and turned it on its head. Her low/no expectations have really paid off.

Under her tutelage, and spiritual guidance, her unlettered, no-talent kids (unless you count Kim’s starring turn in a sex tape) have become the idols of millions.  And they rake in the millions of dollars to match.

Their so-so faces grace tabloids and magazine covers galore. (Although to be fair, Kim does look exactly like Princess Jasmine in the Disney cartoon Aladdin.)

They get thousands for appearances at pool parties.  They garner even more with their inane tweets.  These do-nothing professional party-goers have a Sears apparel line and cosmetic ventures devoted to them.

They have babies out of wedlock and legendary fragrances, like Batard and Je Regette, inspired by them.  And let’s not forget their flagship store venture DASH, opening soon in a strip mall near you.

And they have managed to earn sixty-five million dollars last year.  Enough moolah to buy Bentleys and mansions for all.  Even poor, pushed-to-the-sidelines Bruce can upgrade his model helicopters to his heart’s content.

I, on the other hand, have failed as a “momager.” I don’t have a Bentley, or a face lift, or a best-selling tell-all book.  (Yet.)

By Kardashian standards, the ne plus ultra by which all new parenthood must be measured, my kids are duds.  And I did my best to ruin them, I swear.

Take the way I raised Natasha, for example.  From the earliest age, I spoiled her with violin lessons and French tutors.  She had all the educational and recreational advantages that money could buy.

She had a pony- who she took with her to summer camp in Maine, by the way.  She went on fabulous vacations, had a second home in Snowmass,  prepped at an elite boarding school in Newport, where she sailed the Caribbean for a semester, and mixed with the nobs.

She attended a fantastically expensive college, spent semesters in Paris improving her accent, interned at the National Cathedral School in Washington D.C. and then went on to graduate school in Boston.  It all cost a ton, and I expected a solid return on my investment.

And, now,  what do I have to show for all this exorbitant expense and indulgent pampering?  A serious, responsible, conscientious, married first grade teacher, beloved by her students and respected by her peers, that’s all.

What a gyp.

Couldn’t she have made at least one sex tape?  Where’s her illegitimate baby?  Why is she wasting precious time grading homework and tutoring reading when she could be out partying at Tao or tweeting about hair extensions?

I also failed miserably with my son.  And he began so promisingly, too.

Right from the start, he was a slacker.  It would take six tries to get Nick up in the morning to catch the school bus.  If it wasn’t for my neighbor’s extra-long driveway that bought Nick those few precious extra moments, he would have been a perpetual truant.

He developed an unhealthy interest in skateboarding, blew through every allowance like Diamond Jim Brady, and hid Playboys in his room

So far so good.

He showed even more promise during his high school years.  Tattoos, and hair dye made their first disconcerting appearances, and for a minute there, it looked like I was well on the way to creating my very own “Rob.”

He slept until four in the afternoon, and any time not spent on a snowboard was considered time wasted.  It was Colorado, after all.

He was sloppy and unmotivated.  He traveled with a posse.  His house guests had house guests.

In fact, when Nick and I moved out of our Snowmass condo into a new house, a final check on his room showed that someone had left behind a bong, a bottle of Jagermeister, and a porn tape.

Now, I can’t swear that these items were his.  Any of his cronies, all green-haired weirdos with piercings of an unusual nature, could have laid claim to them.  But still….

He was definitely headed in that lucrative Kardashian direction.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the unemployment line.  He graduated CU with honors, earned a masters at Northwestern, got a great job, married a beautiful girl.

Now, he’s never late, always working, super-organized, completely responsible.  I never have to remind him to call his grandparents or that we have a date for dinner next week.

He’s always ten steps ahead of me and never forgets the slightest obligation.  He has matured into an one hundred per cent industrious, reliable adult who meets every responsibility with good humor and dedication.

In other words, he’s not worth a damn at judging a Miss Teen Age Wet T Shirt contest, dancing with the stars, or creating his own sock line.

The truth hurts.  At this rate, my kids will never be able to buy me that boob job.

Where did I go right?