Have the tabloid presses grown tired of seeing half-naked celebrities? Is this why we’re now treated to magazine covers and E! exposés featuring half-naked pregnant celebs, ingratiatingly demeaned by references to their “bump” and newly pneumatic breasts made up like toy poodles for a best-in-show event? In all seriousness, I don’t look for intelligent journalism in People, InStyle, InTouch, or other celebrity rags. The gossip, the headlines, the fashion follies, the omniscient air of sycophancy—all provide hours of distraction from my otherwise harried existence; reading about the Oscar after-parties or the latest plans for the Sex and the City girls soothes my anxious brain. The recent celebrity pregnancy craze, though, is spoiling the fantasy.
Remember all those images of twenty-four-year-old golden girl Kate Hudson throughout her pregnancy—including that unfortunate and memorable snapshot of her strutting her stuff in super-low-rider velour shorts, her once-taut tummy ripping at the seams with her growing baby? Or Reese Witherspoon, parading her parturient stomach in designer gowns to portray her expectant state as one of grace, of exultation, of triumph? It’s silly that the myth being perpetuated by the tabloids now includes a new and expanded fairy-tale version of motherhood, complete with a belly-licious maternity wardrobe, personal trainer, stylist, nutritional guru (“eggs build brain tissue!”), a million-dollar nursery outfitted to the nines. And, of course, The Husband, famous in his own right—though slightly less so than his wife—and now further exulted by his own virility made manifest. (See: Jennifer Connelly’s Paul Bettany, Madonna’s Guy Ritchie, Kate Hudson’s Chris Robinson, Reese Witherspoon’s Ryan Philippe.)
As trends go, even Uggs-mania pales beside the juggernaut of celebs-with-child gliding down red carpets, getting snapped by paparazzi, and waxing rhapsodic for ET’s Mary Hart or Access Hollywood’s Nancy O’Dell. Stars who have survived into their thirties are regarded with a sense of reverence—having done the hard work of becoming famous, they can now enjoy the fruits of motherhood. Meanwhile, pregnancy for the twenty-something ingénue seems only to enhance the glow of her virginal aura.
Regardless of age, all reap bonus helpings of publicity that, even more than usual, stem from biology. Nowhere is this more apparent than on the web, which has made a cottage industry out of belly-watching. You know it’s out of control when they start crowing about “stars” you’ve never heard of before. Take Melinda Messenger. (Who? Exactly.) The topless British model-cum-television presenter—and her “bump”—are featured among lots of other pregnant it-girls on Tiscali.co.uk, a Eurotrash version of Yahoo. Then there is the dubious voyeurism that cues fans to the breast-feeding habits of Jodie Foster, Madonna, Meryl Streep, and Pamela Anderson—all featured on SheKnows.com. This website keeps tabs on “Thirty Famous Breast-Feeding Moms” as part of an entire section devoted to celebrity pregnancies. It includes interviews with new father Slash (beloved Guns N’ Roses’ guitarist as doting dad); lists of celebrity baby names; celebrity baby birth weights (surely an important source for an eventual study on how celebrity ego factors into their progeny’s health); and the continuously updated list of expectant stars (Debra Messing, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Helen Hunt are all headed for the maternity ward soon). Not that we’d accuse celebrities of being calculating, but pregnancy and motherhood can provide a real career boost for the famous and near-famous. (Not so for mere mortals, most of whom will be very lucky to have a job when they return to work after six unpaid weeks.) It’s hard not to notice how a sudden preggers predicament can get a C-list star onto the B-list (see Holly Marie Combs of Charmed), and upgrade a B-lister to an A. (Heather Mills, the embattled wife of Paul McCartney, has been treated much more kindly since publicly engaging in a “battle of the bumps,” as tabloid headlines are fond of putting it). Call it a fringe benefit that makes up for the morning sickness.
Ultimately, we have to acknowledge that Hollywood moms are merely riding the wave of PR that is their God-given right. Right now, Angelina Jolie ranks near the top of this list. After separating from Billy Bob Thornton (whom everyone respects but—let’s admit it—no one really likes), Jolie has blossomed into a U.N. ambassador, complete with an adopted Cambodian baby in tow. Despite rumors percolating about the shady dealings of the adoption agency she used, Jolie is thriving in the limelight, landing March covers with GQ and Vogue (a Conde-Nast double-header!) to promote her new but not so family-friendly serial-killer thriller. She seems to truly believe in her son and her causes, and not to care that most people still think she’s a freak—albeit a human and loving one. (C’mon, didn’t you see the kid in all those photos?) It’s easy to imagine that other celebs whose careers or reputations are faltering will start adopting Third-World infants (is it too late for Janet Jackson?), much in the same way they adopt fashion designers at the Oscars.
But let’s get real here. Part of the allure of celebrity is the mystery involved, the other-worldliness that the very rich and the very vain emit from their air-brushed, media-saturated pores. What exactly is so interesting about a thirty-year-old pregnant actress? The fact that she will inevitably gain weight, or even blimp out, and therefore start to resemble a normal human being? Maybe it’s the opportunity to learn about cashmere stuffed animals, alternative birthing techniques, and the latest obscure and obscenely expensive pram. Or perhaps it’s simply a trend: more grist for celebrity rags, to be eclipsed eventually by the next celebrity fad—dude, check out Jennifer Aniston’s new dewlaps!
But if this trend really kicks into overdrive, the public’s obsession with celebrity pregnancy might even cross-pollinate with the new influx of secret-video scandals. Imagine turning on the TV to enjoy a comforting Simpsons rerun—only to be flashed by the grainy video footage of Paris Hilton in labor in some seedy maternity ward, moaning—no, begging—for her epidural. Ick.
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