A sad and troubled family

So Dylan Farrow accuses Woody Allen of molesting her and is backed up by her brother – child genius, Pulitzer Prize winner and probably Frank Sinatra’s son – Ronan Farrow. Then Moses Farrow posts a blog in which he calls his mother, Mia Farrow, the abuser while claiming to be a family counselor.

Don’t know where Moses got his degree but I must say that most family counselors I know would not recommend this as a good way to start healing a family.

I feel sorry for the kids of famous people. It always looks like it would have to be so much fun. Mom or dad famous. More money than you’ll know what to do with when the die. The best of everything from clothes to houses to boats and planes. You never fly except on a private jet or in first class. And you get all the attention you could ever want, if only from the help.

But I think about some of these famous “kids” and realize that fame and fortune are no protection against dysfunctional and unhappy families. And the track record on many of these kids after they grow up turns out to not be promising. It would be interesting to see if they die early from drug or alcohol abuse at a rate greater than the general population. If nothing else, all their struggles are played out in a public forum, one they never asked for.

I must say that most of our First Families have been able to avoid this trap, partially through the cooperation of the media that agreed that the kids were off limits. Most have grown to be healthy and productive members of society… well, present administration excluded. I’m guessing on a good day that POS currently sullying the White House doesn’t even remember he has another kid in the wings.

But I digress. I can’t help thinking how hard it is to be a kid and then, almost overnight, suddenly become a teen. I mean, you barely have time to figure out that you can ride a bicycle without training wheels and suddenly someone is holding up a training bra for you to try on. Those are some pretty confusing years for the best of us. For the offspring of the rich and famous I imagine it is even harder to navigate in front of cameras and reporters.

Remember that day you had the god of all zits square in the middle of your cheek? Remember how you slunk into school wanting to just die or wishing your mother had succumbed to your pleas and told the school you’d died overnight? Now imagine that with the papparazzi waiting to immortalize that zit in the tabloids for all the world to see.

Yep, despite the money and the ease that supposedly comes from knowing you’ll always be able to pay the mortgage, being a rich kid is a double edged sword.

Having said that, let me add that I am no longer a kid and am more than willing to be adopted by any rich people who’d be interested in a child slightly out of the normal range referred to when saying that word.