My Kids are Movie Stars

OK. Not exactly movie stars. They're not in ads, tv shows or motion pictures. Really, I try to keep their images private. But, nonetheless, I feel like they get rock star treatment. I often feel like the Anne Hathaway character in the Devil Wears Prada. I am the personal assistant to two huffy, demanding, and completely unreasonable bosses.
Carpool: honestly, there is less brou-ha-ha at the Oscars. Cars and SUVs, like limos line up for blocks. Edging moment by moment to the red carpet. There, a teacher (another of my child's personal assistants, no doubt) who drew short straw and got carpool duty this week, gathers my child and his things, opens his door, and fastens his belt for him. I pull away at limo speed, so as not to jostle my passenger. In the morning, I pull up, and teachers disguised as attendants open his door and escort him to the building. On rainy days, the attendants are armed with umbrellas so as not to get the VIP the least bit damp. Meanwhile, I go to the grocery store, the doctor's office, whatever, and am parked in Timbuktu, schlepping umbrella, handbag, grocery list, cart with bum wheel up to the entrance where some woman in polyester elasticized pants is too busy yakking on her cell phone to hold the door open for me, and it slams, pfump, in my face. Thanks.
Food: my children often get a separate dinner served to them. I try not to, but M and I occasionally have food that is spicy or unusual and the VIPs turn up their noses at it. Thus, chicken nugs and mac and cheese are nuked and served, sliced into convenient bite sized pieces and cooled to the most palatable temperature. Dip and drinks are brought as their royal highnesses sit perched atop their thrones.
Laundry & other services: Every week the laundry fairy has replenished their supply of clean clothes. Poof! I have removed all the ketchup, grease and grass stains, and their clothes are often pressed. Every morning, the cereal of their choice is in the pantry. Poof! Every afternoon, their favorite tv show is TIVO'd. Poof! Every weekend, M and I have researched one fun place or thing for us to go to or do. Poof! Playdate? Poof! Ride to playdate? Poof! Fixed toys? Poof! Haircuts? Bandaids? Song on the iPod? Poof Poof Poof!
Don't get me wrong. I have heard "thank you" on occasion. I have even heard the rare "cool." But it seems to me that being a kid is kind of awesome.
I need a new agent.