As if we needed further proof that celebrities are, in fact, pure evil, we have Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie and that ilk nattering on to make us feel even more inferior than our non-size-zero selves were already capable of. According to Gwynnie ”(Having a baby) changed the way I see the world,” she told a reporter. “I feel like it’s even changed my DNA. (My daughter) is such a good girl and so reasonable. I’ve never ever raised my voice or lost my patience with her once.”

I say that anyone who says they have never lost their patience with a child simply isn’t trying. Spend a few hours with a child — any child at all — and I guarantee you will see how unreasonable the little demons can be.

Take my daughter — oh, not forever, we would miss her … eventually. What we wouldn’t miss is her belief that if she is just insistent enough we can make the impossible happen.

Crying over no milk. Say it’s 7 a.m. and we, foolishly and without regard for personal safety, have allowed ourselves to run out of some staple of life akin to oxygen. Something crucial to survival like, say, chocolate milk.

Upon apprising her of the no-chocolate-milk situation, she immediately falls apart. Completely. Because, of course, having a fit about the milk will indeed make chocolate milk appear — as if by magic — by sheer dint of force and will power generously sprinkled with a dollop of whining.

Maybe I should try it. As if that would work and adults wouldn’t have been employing it for years? Does she not think of all the tantrums I could have thrown in my time if whining and carrying on did any good at all?

Why, when I think of mortgage payments I could have dodged simply by staging a good foot stomping tantrum at the bank, the mind reels!

She is an unusual child is other respects as well. She moves so slowly in the morning that she manages to achieve an almost glacial quality.

Her movements are not visible to the naked eye although we’ll grant that if given enough time she will, eventually, make it all the way from the bathroom sink to the back door.

Is that my kid? For this methodical reason we have taken to calling her Pokey-Dokey. Throw her on a soccer field, however, and suddenly she’s alight with speed as if on fire. She moves like a streak across the green and dodges competitors and uneven ground with the grace of a gazelle.

Most game days I must be repeatedly reminded that the blonde blur is, in fact, my child. It just seems so improbable somehow. How is this the same child who needs a jump start to properly brush her teeth?

That’s a no-no. Our son, as a preschooler, was a fairly compliant little boy. We told him not to poke the baby. Not to eat things he found on the floor. And certainly not to kiss the doggy on the lips.

I had not, however, told him specifically that he couldn’t help his baby sister kiss the dog (by helpfully boosting her upright so she could really wrap her lips around the task).

I also completely failed to inform him that flooding the kitchen with the sink sprayer would not be a fine idea, so clearly, I was asking for it. He also, like many small boys, exhibits a complete inability to wrap his fingers around a pencil and properly write a thank you note — at least not without vast infusions of milk and cookies.

Meanwhile, if given a butter knife and a few unguarded moments he could happily unhinge a door — and his mother as well.

Unlike Gwyneth, I’ve been known to lose my patience over little things like that.

Worst yet to come. One saving grace in this whole thing is that if I’m not mistaken, Gwyneth’s child is approximately 2-year-old. The little darling should be getting just about ready to show her real toddler chops.

I say let that kid throw a tantrum — preferably in public — then we’ll see. I’ve yet to see a toddler who isn’t capable of staging a drama worthy of an Academy Award.

Surely that’s something any celebrity parent can understand.

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