I've been looking for part-time work and suddenly it occurred to me: why am I the one looking for a job? I'm not the one who came along and wreaked havoc on this family's finances. If anything, my personal expenditures have plummeted to record lows as evidenced by dark roots down to my ears in otherwise blondish hair. I'm not the one who consumes a gallon of organic whole milk each day. I'm not the one who needs new educational toys each week to stay mentally stimulated. I'm not the one who drinks a bottle of pinot noir every night. (Oh wait, that last one is me, but that's a direct result of the very people who should be seeking gainful employment.)
My girls are identical -- I hear that is key to getting gigs, the theory being that if one is cranky you just do a switcheroo and whisk the other one onto the set. (Don't tell Steven Spielberg, but mine like to be pissy at exactly the same time as they seemingly want their mother to abuse prescription medications. But I don't see them pulling that shit with Clint Eastwood.) Also, my girls have a distinct advantage over the Olsen twins in that they actually look like human beings.
My point? (People, I always have a point.) I am open to renting out my children for the right price. (I will have to politely decline any feature films starring Christian Bale. If a wandering cameraman upsets him so deeply, I'd hate to see what a life-size dancing duck who sings Splish Splash I Was Taking a Bath 45 times a day would do to his demeanor.) All we require in our dressing room is: ingredients necessary to make white russians, 20 cases of a medium-bodied red wine and a life-like cardboard cut-out of Daniel Craig. Oh, and I guess some baby food but I don't want to seem high maintenance.
I will make a most excellent momager! The director will barely know I'm there. You won't see me hovering to make sure my kids aren't being exploited, I'll be too busy rummaging through the lead actors' trailers looking for personal memorabilia to sell on e-Bay. Hollywood, make me an offer!