Each week the Post reimagines the week in a life of a newsmaker. This week, new mom and superstar Angelina Jolie:
Monday What an absolutely wonderful, peaceful day. Being a new mom can be so relaxing. Particularly when you have a staff of nannies and servants and security people who cordon off the entire floor of a French hospital so you can get some sleep. One of the nannies wheeled the twins into the room for a minute and I gazed at them longingly. “Isn’t it amazing,” I asked Brad. He was playing with his iPhone again. “Brad,” I said. “Isn’t it amazing?” He looked up. “You bet, Angie. It’s especially cool since we’re the biological parents,” he said. “We’re the biological parents of our third child, too,” I said, coolly. “Pax?” he said. “I admit I have a hard time keeping them straight.” I just stared at him. “Wait a sec, Pax is our fourth,” he said. “Right, she’s the Vietnamese one. Of course, you gave birth to our third child. I have it now. How could I forget sweet little Shalom?,” he said. “Shiloh,” I said. “Right,” he said. “My bad.”
Tuesday I told Brad this morning that I was ready to start trying to get pregnant again. He almost choked on a croissant. “You’ve only been not pregnant for, like, 48 hours!” he said. “Have you looked around this floor of the hospital recently? We have kids everywhere! There’s Maddox and Pax and Shiloh and the new twins and I can barely keep track of little Sahara as it is!” I stared, coldly. “It’s Zahara,” I said. “That’s my bad again,” he said.
Wednesday “Look,” Brad said this morning. “I don’t know if this is a hormonal thing, but we really need to take some time before thinking about pregnancy again. Six kids is a lot. Frankly, this having children business is not cheap. At least, not where you like to have them. That place in Provence was not exactly Motel 6, you know? And I’m still paying off the Visa charges for the joint in Malawi where you had Shiloh.” I told him Shiloh was born in Namibia. “Same continent. Close enough,” he said. “I was hoping to get away from the movies soon,” he said. “And focus on my architecture studies. You know, like how Daniel Day Lewis became a shoe cobbler for a while and everyone thought he went crazy? Of course, he is a little crazy … Anyway, I can’t do the architecturing if we keep having kids. Instead, ten years from now I’ll be trying to talk Clooney into Ocean’s 22.”
Thursday I told Brad my agent had cut a deal for U.S. rights to the first pictures of the twins. He looked up from his iPhone briefly. “Oh yeah? How much?” I told him $11-million. “Sweet!” he said. “Bring on kid number seven! You feeling a little randy this morning, or do you want to adopt? I understand Romania is producing some lovely orphans at this time of year.” I explained that the money would be going to charity. “All of it? he said. “At the least we could put a little in trust funds for Knox and … the French-sounding one.” Vivienne Marcheline, I said. “Right,” he said. “Her.”
Friday Brad burst into the hospital this morning waving his iPhone. He was excited about a job offer. “Scorcese again?” I asked. “Spielberg?” He said no, but some sheiks in Dubai want him to build a condo tower. I pointed out that he has never actually built anything before, but he said the sheiks just want his cachet. “It’s perfect, Angie,” he said. “We could pop by Baghdad on the way over, hit the orphanages, adopt a kid - not too wounded, mind you - and I could be working on blueprints by next week. Boom! Sweet deal, or what?” I have to hand it to him: those Iraqi orphans are just the cutest.
