Mommywood Page 5

  I don’t want to go on at length about my relationship with my mom, but I want to explain how intense and destructive our dynamic was. It’s a formative part of who I am and what I want to avoid as a mother. My pop-psych theory is that my mom couldn’t stand the idea that I might have more in life than she did. At my first wedding she said, “I didn’t have a big wedding. My parents couldn’t afford it.” When I told her how happy I was with Dean, that I’d found my soul mate, she congratulated me, but in the same email she gave me notice that she and my dad were selling the condo that I was renting from them right out from under me. After my father passed away, she said things like “I never had friends. Your father wouldn’t let me.” It seemed like something was missing from her life and she blamed me.

  The way this dynamic played out was subtle but ongoing. Even when I was in my early twenties, instead of bonding we were competing. Beanie Babies—those little stuffed animals filled with “beans” instead of stuffing—were a big fad. They became collectors’ items, with people trading them on eBay for exorbitant amounts of money, depending on how rare they were (or how rare people thought they might one day become). A few years later everyone suddenly realized at once that they were worthless, and the market crashed. They were like the tech stocks of the mid-nineties, except that everyone knew they were beans and fluff from the start. But during their peak, my mom and I got obsessed and started buying Beanie Babies on eBay. I’d bring my laptop to my dressing room at 90210 and be intently bidding on one animal or another. When my five-minute warning to be on set came, I’d be furiously clicking to add five dollars to my bid. Then I’d hurry out to stage cheering, “I just won the crab!” I had books cataloguing the world of Beanie Babies—how many of each were manufactured, what colors they came in, what they were worth. I received the Beanie Babies newsletter once a month and was a member of Beanie Babies of America. Eventually my business manager included my Beanie Babies in my monthly report. Under assets.

  My mother was doing the same thing. She’d send me an email saying, “So, I was just wondering whether you’ve gotten Slither yet.” I’d say no, and she’d respond, “Oh, I just got mine. I won it on eBay.” I’d go online and see that Slither the Snake was going for $2,500. Some of the Beanie Babies were only released to small stores in certain areas. Once I found the coveted Princess the Bear, a special release for the Diana of Wales Memorial Fund, at a small store in New York where nobody thought to check. When I wrote to tell the big news to my mother, she responded, “Oh that’s great. I have five.” My mom’s Beanie Babies were all tagged, numbered, and carefully sealed by her staff. I had piles and piles of Beanie Babies filling my apartment. Was collecting Beanie Babies a shared interest that my mom and I enjoyed pursuing together? It didn’t feel like it. It felt much more like a competition. And I have a thousand worthless Beanie Babies in Ziploc bags in storage somewhere to show for it.

  I imagine that in some way my mother thought we were bonding over the Beanie Babies. But again, it felt like she couldn’t stand the idea that I would ever have more than she did. My mother may have loved me, but although she was able to give me things that she had missed—whether they were emotional or material—I think she felt angry at letting me have them. Was it because her mom hadn’t made her feel good about herself, so she didn’t want me to feel good about myself? If she didn’t get to have a doting mother, why should I? That was my greatest fear. I hadn’t had a doting mother; what if I passed the same resentment on to my daughter?

  As my pregnancy progressed, Dean and I had long talks about my genuine fear of having a girl. I always told Dean that I felt like my dad had a hand in creating the competitiveness, the jealousy between me and my mom from an early age. He had doted on my mother, but when I was born he turned his attention to me. I worried about this with Dean. He’s always dreamt of having a little girl. And I’m Dean’s world. Were we set up for disaster? Even with both of us doting on Liam, I still felt like his focus was all Tori, Tori, Tori, but what if he stopped showing me that affection? I hoped that I would just be glad to see my children being loved, but what if something came out in me that I couldn’t predict or control?

  I made Dean swear to protect us all from this dynamic. When our girl came he had to make sure to love us both. He was like, “Of course, I would never love you any less.” I knew that’s what he would say, but it helped to hear it. I think it’s important to talk about these tensions in any family. I saw an interview that Heidi Klum and Seal did on Oprah. Seal said that his priorities were in this order: wife, children, career. That made me stop and think. My first instinct was Wait, kids don’t come first? Then I realized that in a way he was right. People have children and they’re so dependent (and cute!) that the focus naturally turns to them. Children need more protection. They need more care. But you can’t sacrifice your relationship as a couple.

  I worried about our family dynamics, and I also worried about the caregivers. I was raised by Nanny, an amazing woman who gave me the foundation for how I want to parent. Without Nanny I wouldn’t be the person I am today. But from my earliest fantasies about being a mother, I was certain that I’d never have a nanny for my children. Then we hired a baby nurse for Liam. We had to: we were going back to work full-time, and even if he was always nearby, we needed to make sure there was someone to hold him, to give him his bottle, and to put him down for naps when he was ready. We found Patsy, who felt like part of our family, but I still hoped I wasn’t setting myself up for failure from the get-go by having someone come in to help me raise my child.

  What I needed to keep reminding myself was that my situation was very different from my mother’s. I didn’t really have an option. I had to work in order to support my family. The same was true for this baby: I knew I’d be returning to work less than a week after she was born! If I didn’t have a baby nurse, what would I do? I wasn’t afraid of my children or reluctant to spend time with them; I was working out of necessity. I had help because I had to earn money. Of course, my mom was busy too. She had lots of Madame Alexander dolls (which I was never allowed to touch) to collect, label, and display “for me.” Wow, now I do sound bitter.

  What I have to come to grips with is that there isn’t one perfect way to raise a child. Maybe our bond is closer when we spend more time together, but it doesn’t disappear when I work. It’s not the time, it’s not the caregivers, it’s not one interaction on one day. It’s everything put together. Those hours and days, those choices we make as parents, little and big, they all add up. My goal is to make them add up to the strongest relationship possible.

  What was my ideal relationship? I hadn’t lived it, so I had to think it through. I started by reflecting on what, specifically, from my childhood I wanted to change for Liam, but especially for my unborn daughter. I decided to write down rules for myself, so if having a girl ever made me lose my grip on reality, I had somewhere to turn.

  Here are the guidelines I created:

  1. The Madame Alexander Rule: Getting your daughter a present and telling her she can’t touch it (like my mother did every year with those ridiculous Madame Alexander dolls) is worse than not getting her anything. So I’ll never get her anything. No, just kidding. I’ll always get my daughter presents she can play with.

  2. The Bonwit Teller Rule: Along the same lines as above, I’m not going to dress my daughter in clothes she doesn’t want to wear. Especially not anything pastel. I don’t know why my mother always made me dress up like a doll—especially when she had all of my dolls to play with. But as long as my daughter’s clothing choices are within a range of acceptability, she can wear whatever she wants. Even (oh God, I can barely say it without gagging) pastel.

  3. The Rapunzel Rule: If she wants shoulder-length—or ass-length, or floor-length—hair, she can have it. All I wanted growing up was long hair, and my mother made me get that same stupid bob for twelve solid years. (Are you picking up any sort of theme to these guidelines? Not that I’m bitter. Stupid bob.)


  4. The Nanny Rule: Dean or I will always be there at night when she’s sick or scared, instead of relying on a nanny to sleep by her side. I know that seems like an obvious one, but I just had to say it.

  5. The Ed McMahon Rule: I’ll let her invite whomever she wants to her wedding(s), and I won’t invite celebrities I barely know just because they happen to be on the invitation list of someone I want to impress. (Unless it’s Kate Winslet or someone like that. Then all bets are off.)

  6. The I-Paid-for-This-Wedding-and-All-of-Your-Furniture Rule: Gifts I give to my daughter will never come with strings attached. Or ropes. Or intricate pulley systems that require the recipient to dance the cha-cha while wearing lederhosen.

  7. The Lonely Rich Kid Rule: I’ll let her go over to friends’ for sleepovers. Even if I turn out to have as many crazy fears and paranoias as my father did (and I’m well on my way), I won’t indulge them. I’ll let her do what other kids do.

  8. The You-Must-Pay-the-Rent Rule: If I ever buy a residence for her (as my mother did for me), I won’t make her pay rent; at the very least, I won’t raise said rent every year by having my money manager send my own daughter a notification by email. And to answer your question, yes, that happened.

  9. The Face-to-Face Rule: You know what? Let’s give this its own place: I’ll never, ever communicate with my daughter through a money manager.

  10. The No-Such-Thing-as-a-Coincidence Rule: I’ll never show up at her wedding rehearsal dinner dressed like her older twin.

  11. The Parental Sponsorship Rule: I won’t offer to host a postwedding brunch, or any other party for that matter, and pull out funding the week before.

  12. I’m looking at Rule 7: Okay, Rule 12 is that if I hear that there are gonna be boys at this sleepover, then forget it. She’s staying home. And I’m disappointed that she didn’t tell me about the boys. Wow, I’m already worried about this.

  13. The Beanie Baby Rule: I won’t pretend to bond while subconsciously competing with my daughter over who has the better Beanie Baby collection (or whatever worthless, short-lived fad it’ll be in the future).

  14. The Champagne BMW Rule: I don’t know if/when I’ll buy her a car, but I’m not my mom: if she wants the cheaper Volkswagen instead of the luxury car that I think complements her skin, she can have it. I’ll use the savings to hire a private investigator to find out who the hell that boy was at the sleepover.

  15. The sTORI telling Rule: If my daughter ever writes a tell-all book about me, I promise to take it as constructive criticism, to get us into therapy together, and not to retaliate by writing my own book.

  16. The Rule That Should Be True for All Mothers: I’ll love my daughter unconditionally, no matter who she is, what she does, or how difficult our relationship is.

  On the other hand, I do have some fond memories from my childhood. And there were some rules I didn’t disagree with entirely.

  1. I wasn’t allowed to go to summer camp. I see the draw—the lakes full of leeches, the rustic plumbing facilities, the insipid color wars—but I’m not sure I’ll be able to let her leave me for so long at such a tender age.

  2. Like me, she won’t be allowed to make out with twenty-five-year-old chefs. Or any other household employees. Or anyone more than one year older than she is. Actually, I don’t see why she has to make out with anyone, at all, ever. But I’m open to negotiation—after she’s twenty-one.

  3. Maybe it was inappropriate for my mother to watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers with me when I was only four years old, but if my daughter starts later, I wouldn’t mind if she eventually comes to love horror movies like my mom and me.

  4. I might secretly hide beautiful seashells for her to find on the beach, just like my mom did for me. I’m not opposed to deceit if it’s with the purpose of nurturing wonder and joy. After all, isn’t that the whole philosophy behind Santa Claus? But I’ll make sure that she doesn’t find out the truth the same way I did: reading it in OK! magazine.

  5. Those big theme birthday parties that my mother threw for me? Oh, they’re in my blood now. Monkey, ladybug, rodeo, zoo, fairy, Santa in the tropics…I’ve got big dreams.

  Monkey Business

  I have some idea of what kids’ birthday parties are supposed to look like. Balloons tied to the front door. Pin the tail on the donkey. Maybe a hired magician or clown. Some sheet cake from the local grocery store. Done. I have that picture in my head, but I’m not sure where I got it. My childhood birthdays were completely over-the-top Hollywood. There was always a custom cake from Hansen’s, the legendary Los Angeles bakery. There was always a moon bounce and there were always live animals—be it a poodle performance or Smidget the miniature horse. There were at times any number of the following: Ronald McDonald, a Michael Jackson impersonator, a children’s fashion show. Growing up I remember going to a swimming party at Diana Ross’s house for her daughter Tracy, and to a party for Cheryl Ladd’s daughter, Jordan, on a big lawn at her grandfather’s house. I can’t say I have any memories of simple, homespun birthday parties.

  When Liam’s first birthday rolled around, my honest-to-God intention was to have a small party for him. I would avoid the excesses of my parents. Our celebration would be small, rational, and appropriate. Plus, I was seven months pregnant. This was no time for a big, crazy blowout. I always thought that it was silly to have a birthday party for a one-year-old anyway. They don’t remember it. You might as well just have a few friends over, hand the child a cupcake to smash, take a picture of said child with a party hat on and the cupcake smeared all over his face, and be done with it. But as soon as I got together with my gays to start planning, something happened to me. Some primal urge kicked in. I went into a fugue state. My eyes grew wide like David Banner’s and I turned into a party-planning Hulk. There was no stopping me.

  Dean and I have always called Liam “Monkey,” so it was a no-brainer to have a monkey-themed party. My first stop was…Hansen’s. I wanted a cake shaped like a monkey, but not just any cake. I met with the owner, who remembered the Raggedy Ann cake I once loved and looked forward to every year. Are you picturing an ordinary sheet cake decorated like Raggedy Ann? Please. This Raggedy Ann was sitting up. She was three-dimensional and covered with dabs of ruffled icing that gave the whole cake a kind of soft, textured look. That Raggedy Ann cake was one of my treasured memories. Yes, yes, it had to happen. I ordered the same cake for Liam, but in the form of a monkey holding a banana. With banana-flavored cake, of course.

  Next, there had to be live animals. A live monkey was obvious, but how could we top it? Hmm…aha! Two live monkeys! Steve Martin’s Working Wildlife was bringing Suzy the chimp, and then there was an organ-grinder monkey who would do a carnival-style song and dance. I thought the two monkeys could hang out, maybe pick each other’s nits, but Suzy the chimp’s managers were not thrilled to hear about the organ-grinder monkey. They said that Suzy and the organ-grinder monkey were not to cross paths under any circumstances. They required a fifteen-minute buffer between the two appearances. I’m sure there was a very good reason, but it came across a little Hollywood. Diva monkeys couldn’t share the set with each other, Desperate Housewives–style.

  I couldn’t find a monkey-themed moon bounce, but I had read Liam a Curious George story where he goes up in a spaceship. I was hoping that would tie the moon bounce in thematically somewhere in the back of Liam’s mind.

  Once the basics (go ahead, mock me, I deserve it) were in place, I should have stopped. But (damn you, Internet) when I found out I could hire a little train to drive in circles around the party, well, I knew Liam would love that. And of course we needed lots and lots of food. People had to eat! Especially the pregnant hostess and her sympathetic husbands.

  As I was planning, it became clear that there was no way this “little” birthday party would fit in our backyard. Our backyard was almost all swimming pool aside from a small grassy area. We needed a spacious lawn to accommodate the food stalls, the animals, the cake table, the moon bounce�
�not to mention the train! We needed a new location. I asked around, and a friend volunteered his parents’ house. At least someone’s grandmother was willing to provide space for Liam’s first birthday party. Ahem.

  Everything was planned and ready. The morning of the party Liam started cutting a molar. He was one. These things happen. Yet another good reason not to make a one-year-old’s party into a mega-event. Poor Liam was miserable. The notion that we’d planned this whole spectacular day for (mostly) his benefit went whizzing right past him. He had no interest in Suzy, and even less in the organ-grinder monkey. He refused to ride in the train. The people who were transporting the moon bounce to the site of the party had car trouble. Then they got lost. The moon bounce didn’t show up until halfway through the party. Then the time came for the cake. I was so excited. I had visions of Liam reaching out to touch the monkey, eyes wide with amazement. Maybe he would try to grab the monkey’s cake-banana and wind up with a handful of delicious yellow icing. Ha, ha, funny pictures! But when we brought Liam over to the cake to sing “Happy Birthday” to him, he started screaming. He was terrified. The cake was bigger than he was. Liam pulled away, shielded his little eyes, and shrieked in terror as if he thought the giant cake-monkey was trying to kill him. Even far away, on the other side of the lawn, he wouldn’t take a taste of the little morsel of cake that I tried to feed him. Hansen’s cake? A total bust. But at least now he’d be able to say that he had a Hansen’s cake from his first birthday on. The tradition had begun.

  We had all this amazing little kid food. Mini pigs-in-a-blanket. Mini hamburgers. Mini corn dogs. Mini grilled cheese sandwiches. Banana mini milkshakes. Chicken nuggets. All Liam wanted was one of the bananas that we’d hung from the trees as decorations. A plain old, regular, non-made-out-of-Hansen’s-cake-and-icing supermarket banana. That banana was the highlight of the party for Liam. He sat in his high chair and quietly enjoyed it. Oh, and he was a big fan of the Dippin’ Dots. It reminded me that for all the lavish parties my parents threw me, the two special treats that stood out every birthday were McDonald’s—each child got a Happy Meal bag—and the mind-blowing party trough that Baskin-Robbins used to deliver with scoops of all thirty-one flavors. I could have had anything my heart desired (if my mother desired it), but what I loved most were the same delicacies that almost any kid with any amount of money would enjoy.