THIS TOWN

ou are not what

you own." That

bumper sticker, on

the rusted fender of an old Volvo, hit

me between the eyes as I walked to

the last of five baby showers, (yes, five)

for a friend who was being fruitful and

multiplying. I wanted to scratch out the

sweet nothing I'd written on her gift card and scribble

instead, "You are not what you have." I was sick of

buying her presents, anyway.

This is not a condemnation of my pregnant

friend, or of children, but an observation on

the latest out-of-control trend in excess among

people who can afford excess. The adoration of

rich offspring has become an industry in itself,

with enablers galore who seductively feed the

addictions of the acquisitive. What I see more

often than not, though, is little "Madison" or

"Jacob" at their birthday party, sitting in the

corner with their imported nanny, who is called

their "caregiver," but who in fact is actually raising

them. They look across the tables of catered food,

and piles of presents, at Mom and Dad, wanting

only some love from them. "Mom, I don't want a

Louis Vuitton backpack for school" a 12 year-old

daughter shrieks at her mother with me in the

room. "I told you! I want LL Bean! Can't I please

just have what I want?" The mother fumes to

me, "She's so ungrateful. What do I do?" I look

at the cool but unwanted article in question and

volunteer, "I'll take it."

But here's the thing, and you don't have to be

a parent to get this: children are not a means to

an end. They are the whole package, with unique

personalities and needs and wants. They are not

status symbols, a social advantage, an excuse to

work the other parents on the sideline at soccer

games or a reflection of your power - or lack

thereof - because you could, or could not, get

them into the school that you felt would most

advance your business and social

ambitions. If you indulge them enough, they will become like

the eighth grader who, when admonished by a teacher

in science class for calling another student a word

he shouldn't have, shouted back: "You can't tell me

what to do. My father paid for this science lab!"

I could fill pages about clothes, allowances, cars and other

perks, but it's the "right school" phenomenon

that most spirals out of control in this town.

Another true-life moment: the "Smiths"

have three lovely children - two older girls and a

younger boy. They are attractive, interesting, lively

and loving young people. Any parent would be

proud. But little Gregory Smith didn't make the

cut at a lofty local boys school last spring, and the

father said to us, "I can't help it. I'm so damned

mad at him. I know I shouldn't be, but I am.

I actually can't speak to him." I asked my dear

husband with the two law degrees, "Would I go

to jail if I kidnapped Gregory?"

Funny that soon after, my dinner partner was

the headmaster of that same school, where the

application rate is fifteen to one. Perhaps because

I am without children in the pipeline, he felt

comfortable to let down his guard. "You wouldn't

believe the admissions process," he spilled. "The

degree of coercion, manipulation and influence

peddling that goes on would get an elected official

thrown out of office." I asked him to what ends

will a desperate but well-connected parent go?

"Would you believe we get letters from Supreme

Court justices recommending nine year-olds for

our fourth grade?"

Mention the words "Bar" or "Bat Mitzvah" to

managers of our bigger hotels, and you will hit

the jackpot of parental indulgence. The cost can

start at half a million. At a recent Four Seasons

Bar Mitzvah, when the big band was momentarily

hushed and the hired Redskins and Wizards

stepped aside, and the grown-ups in black-tie and

ball gowns took their seats, the father made a toast

to his son. "My dear boy, you should be grateful to

your mother for your being here tonight, and not

only for the act of birth. Before I even laid eyes on

you, she sent a message out with the nurse: Call

the Four Seasons immediately and book Saturday

night for 13 years from now."

I say good luck, children, and you better

hope the well doesn't run dry.

Readers wishing to get in touch with Michael can

email her at: mstrange@washingtonlife.com