I like Britney. She’s talented. She’s cute. And I think she’s a victim of her own success. Rumor has it her mom lives locally. I’d love to talk with her and find out what happens when your daughter goes off the deep end in such a public way and how helpless she must feel as a mother, because the young Ms. Spears is definitely swimming with hungry sharks. The problem is she’s enjoying being the chum. No matter how this turns out – and I am loathe to predict any next moves only to be trumped by the B herself – I feel sorry for the two little boys who will grow up with this baggage. First she loses her underwear (curse that darn Internet) when she parties with fellow scholar Paris Hilton. Then she has this wild weekend, and faux musician dad comes out looking like Father Knows Best. I’m hoping they will grow up in spite of her. Jayden James accepting his Nobel prize in something brilliant that has nothing to do with show biz, ducking “those” questions that will dog him and serve as fodder for joint therapy sessions with Sean Preston at a nearby monastery. So far, so good. 3:33 p.m. and she’s hanging in there. Maybe we won’t hear “Oops, I Did It Again” in the near future. 160Want local news?Sign up for the Localist and stay informed Something went wrong. Please try again.subscribeCongratulations! You’re all set! Where is Tom Cruise when we need him? It’s 3:08 p.m. Thursday, and Britney “Mother of the Year” Spears is currently in rehab. For those of you residing under a rock for the last few days, here’s a page from her day planner: Check into rehab. Check out. Get two tattoos. Burst into a hair salon, demand shears and shave head. Find badly-styled blonde wig to wear while clubbing. Drink. Check into rehab again. Realize wig looks like crap, blame paparazzi for being nosy. Check out, look for open tattoo parlor in early morning, strike out. Find out soon-to-be extremely rich ex-husband wants the kids and is headed for court. Check back into rehab, ducking action that threatens aforementioned maternal title. 3:13 p.m. Still in rehab. Obviously this is a case of postpartum depression. And couch-hopping, journalist-insulting Tom is nowhere to be found. Where are the soothing, knowledgable tones of the Tomster who preaches counseling over chemicals? I see him on the same pages of the fan magazines my daughter reads, so I know that he and Brit must rub elbows somewhere, given the normal activities pictured in these bastions of truth. (They pick up milk! They order pizza! They read the paper!) Sometimes you just can’t count on a celebrity to help you out. This situation is almost as weird as the Anna Nicole Smith story decaying as I write. When K-Fed starts to look like the grounded, mature parent, something is seriously wrong.