Instant Mom (16 page)

Once again, it all comes back to control—being pinned to the ground by a stranger is the same as my weight gain and equal to putting myself through all those fertility treatments. In all these situations, of course I just wanted the control of my body back. Who doesn’t?

This also ties into the same methodology I use with parenting—even though I have rules and guidelines, I give Ilaria the control to make her own decisions. I think problem solving is the best tool I can give her.

Now, I feel like the incident is behind me. Writing it out was not easy and if I am impetuous enough to keep it in this book, I will have to sit my mom down first and tell her. This will be terrible because she will be scared. No mother wants to hear this story about their daughter. But I hope my mom and dad will take it better because they’ll see it’s behind me and I feel stronger because of it. I really do. I actually want to get a Wonder Woman T-shirt and wear it outside with nothing but lipstick and a smile. If you come within ten paces of my front yard, I will pepper-spray your eyeballs out of your face.

Also, my friend Dan tells me something that makes me see the incident in a different way: so many people wonder what they would do in that situation and he points out that now I
know
that I didn’t go silent and I didn’t freeze up. I punched and kicked and screamed. Like my daughter kicking that eight-year-old boy off her on that slide, I kicked that guy off me.

Other than looking over my shoulder on a dark street, I don’t give it much thought anymore. I have other things to think about.

Since it’s time to baptize Ilaria . . .

• 19 •

Greek Baptism

Ilaria enjoys hearing about
heaven. Maybe because I describe it as a place where everyone rides a soft little white pony and has popcorn for breakfast. As hokey as this sounds, I tell Ilaria I felt her presence the day she was born. I tell her I saw her blond-streaked hair in my dreams. I tell her she sent me signs she was coming. I tell her about the girl in Spain who held my hand as if she was conveying Ilaria was coming to me soon. I tell her all this because it helps her know how much she was wanted. She likes to discuss these stories before bed . . . probably because for most kids the deep thoughts are revealed when they’re trying to stall. This is when the good stuff comes out.

Ilaria likes to tell me what’s going on in her world. Which is good. A nice mom in the line at Kmart once gave me the advice to just listen and not make everything a life lesson. We’re lying in bed and Ilaria tells me in detail that she has what would amount to a blood feud with a girl at preschool. Yes, I want to rush over there in the morning and fix it, but I just cover my mouth in the dark and let her spill it out. A few days later, I see her playing with the mortal enemy again, so of course it’s actually fine without my meddling. As evidenced by the experience in my front yard, I need to talk things out, as do my sisters, sister-in-law, and cousins. Maybe it’s a girl thing, maybe it’s a Vardalos trait. Either way, Ilaria likes to talk things out too.

Ilaria asks me why God didn’t give me a baby. This isn’t an uncomfortable question for me anymore. I tell her there was another plan for me; I was supposed to wait for her. I tell her it was hard to wait but she is worth it. I say, “I used to look up at heaven and say, ‘When, when will I be a mother?’ And you were on a cloud looking down at me, saying, ‘Wait for me, I’m coming.’ ” She likes this story and asks for it a lot.

There is a new mountain of presents in the front hall. Our friends and family have been overly generous up to now, so we come up with the idea that instead of presents for her baptism, if they wish to, they can donate money to any foster family agency. So our friends and family donate . . .
and
still send presents.

Again and again, Ian and I are touched by the generosity of our family and friends. Here’s a celebrity name-drop story. As I’ve mentioned, one of my closest friends is Sean Hayes. One of the things I love about him is he is unchanged since he became a superstar. He is a lovable and smart guy and never puts on airs. I adore him. Plus he is soooooo caring that one night when I showed him the pepper spray I now carry, he pokerface-offered to attack me so I could spray him for practice.

One of the things Sean and his grounded and good-natured boyfriend, Scotty, and I often talk about is how we grew up comfortable but without wealth and we don’t want our lifestyle to change us and make us out-of-touch L.A. types. Of course, we’re probably more out-of-touch jerks than we think, but we’re trying to retain some normalcy in our lives so we don’t become full-blown windbags. Anyway, after years of this conversation, when I became a mom, Sean and I had a big discussion about how I don’t want to spoil my daughter. Sean agreed and cautioned me to be really careful because of some of the entitled L.A. kids we’ve encountered.

But for Ilaria’s baptism today, Sean and Scotty come over this morning and give me a gift: it’s a necklace of a diamond heart. Diamonds! When I look up, Sean’s eyes are misty, and he tells me how happy he is to see me as a mom, finally. I protest that the gift is too extravagant and he tells me to “shut it” and that I can keep it until Ilaria is old enough to wear it or hawk it if times get tough.

So I’m keeping it hidden to see which comes first.

I add the gift
to the crag of swag and think about today’s baptism. From the very beginning, every time Ilaria clutched a burger as she strode across the back patio in her bikini, someone in the family would declare, “She’s a little gypsy. Just like us.” The first time my family saw her gnaw a lamb bone and power through a plate of olives, they squealed, “She’s Greek, she’s Greeeeeeeeeek.” I am not sure of her ethnic background, but the truth is, like Ian getting sucked into the vortex of my giant family, Ilaria is Greek now too. It seems fitting that she get baptized.

But while we’re getting ready to go to the church, and Ilaria is quiet in her room, I become apprehensive. Ilaria is opinionated and therefore not easily cajoled into doing things that don’t interest her. I’ve explained baptizing her is a way of thanking God in heaven for her. I don’t think she’s buying it. Because she now insolently struts downstairs, not in the pretty silk party dress I’d bought her, but rather in the now-ripped yellow polyester princess costume she’d lifted from Ann’s house a while ago. This is my first indication this is not a good day. That and the huge pout she’s sporting. Her bottom lip is taking over her face.

I have described to my daughter what her baptism will be like. In the Greek church we fully immerse babies in a tub of holy water. Pieces of hair are trimmed. Of course, there’s olive oil involved since every ceremony seems to tie in somehow to Greek salad.

I’m not sure Ilaria is going to go for it. She’s almost four years old now and quite dogmatic. At school, they call her a “leader,” which I know is just a Reggio word for “bossy.” This is not going to be easy. I hear her cousins in the TV room telling her that her baptism will be fun, and Ilaria replies: “I’m not doing it.” Everyone quickly switches gears and assures her it will be over quickly. I look in: the dark thunder of Ilaria’s expression foreshadows the storm a-brewing. But with my parents and family in tow, we all head to church.

My family is visiting for the premiere of
My Life In Ruins
. One fun fact about my family: when I’m filming, they show up to be extras. They’re all over my movies—you can spot them if you imagine my face with different wigs. I ask my parents and Ian to be in my movies because it’s funny and, also, film lasts forever. Ian is usually working on a TV show or another film, but we figure out a part for him to play (actually he quickly flips though my scripts then states, “I’ll play the bartender if I can carry a gun”), then he flies to whatever city I’m in for what seems to be his personal goal: to get me fired by making me laugh on camera. In
Connie and Carla
I had to change my usual not-laughing technique of thinking of that disgusting worm sandwich into now imagining myself slurping up a heaping bowl of lemon-poached eyeballs. Because when the camera is on me, Ian is off camera imitating my dancing to make me laugh. In his scene in
My Life In Ruins,
which we shot on our actual wedding anniversary, Ian plays the hotel clerk with the (added) hair in his ears who suggestively propositions my character. Ian improvised most of what he did. The more he came on to me, the more I laughed. My hot costar, Alexis Georgoulis, is a giant star in Greece so there were tons of rumors in the magazines that we were having an affair even though my parents were chaperoning me all over Greece. In truth, making a movie can be really lonely, so it’s really nice to have my family around. My mom even ran lines with me as we perched against the ruins of Delphi. One of the greatest joys of my career was the day we filmed at the Acropolis. As I was standing in position at the base of the ancient Parthenon and about to say my lines, my parents walked right through the shot handing out sacks of fruit and cookies to the cast and crew. Everyone loves having my parents around. They’re comical and demonstrative and so excited to be a part of it, their affection and excitement is contagious to even the most jaded crew member. So it’s great that my family comes to the premieres too, along with many cousins, aunts, and uncles. Because we live all over—from Greece to Australia, the States and Canada—the premieres are mini-reunions for us.

So since the family is coming for the
My Life In Ruins
premiere, we’ve decided to have Ilaria’s baptism in the same week. We’ve asked my cousin George Skoufis and Rita Wilson to be Ilaria’s godfather and godmother. Traditionally, you ask your best man to baptize your child. To be a best man in our church you have to be Greek. Years ago at our wedding, Ian’s friend Kerry was Ian’s honorary best man, and my cousin George, whom I’m very close with, was also our best man because he’s Greek Orthodox.

Rita had been such a good friend to me during the blegh years. As I said, you really find out who your friends are when you don’t feel like being a shiny, happy movie star. Often Rita would take me for lunches in Beverly Hills. She never mentioned how run-down I looked or how glum I seemed. We’d shop and laugh together, and it felt good to forget that I had rented a condo in the Pit of Despair. During that time, Tom and I started writing
Larry Crowne
. They both knew what I was going through, but they never asked invasive questions. I always say Rita is like my fairy godsister, so it seems fitting she now baptize my daughter. Ian and I like this combo of George and Rita. It seems fitting to have George, our best man, be Ilaria’s godfather, but because he lives in Australia and as I’ve mentioned we don’t have family close by, now Ilaria will have Rita as her godmother in Los Angeles. Tom will also be Ilaria’s godfather since he’s married to Rita and is now Greek Orthodox. My cousin George is married to a man named Jim. Yes, my cousin is cool and out (snap fingers, bob head here) but gay marriage is not recognized by my church. Yet.

Congenial Father John welcomes us all, and I see Ilaria is calm as she watches the ceremony begin. She became quite serene when I reminded her in the car we’re having a party at home afterward to celebrate her baptism. Cousin Nike and Core have stayed behind to decorate. To give Ilaria a goal to work toward, I whisper the party details, and on my phone, show her the picture of the giant mermaid cake. (The mermaid theme is her joke on the dunking that’s coming her way.) She’s excited about the cake—to keep her attention, I describe the creamy and abundant frosting. Before you judge me on bribing my kid with sugar, just can it; sometimes food
is
a reward.

The priest begins to chant, and Rita and George carry Ilaria out of the church to denounce the devil. Yes, really. We Greeks are serious about this good and evil stuff.

They come back in and now I see it on Ilaria’s face: this is
not
happening. Because she has just spotted the baptismal font of water, which to a kid looks like a warlock’s cauldron of boiling brew. Her expression says
No, no, people let’s cut to the cake
. She is not into this at all. She’d rather stay pagan than go into that giant swirling toilet.

Now I have to carry her toward that basin, and she starts screaming. I mean, yelling like we’re sacrificing her to cannibals. I look up at my mom, dad, siblings, Rita, Tom, George, relatives, and think . . .
Hmm, why am I doing this exactly? Do I care if she’s Greek Orthodox? Is this so important to me?

As the priest trims three locks of Ilaria’s hair, for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, she is shouting as loud as she can to summon them all to help her. I look upward so I won’t cry. The icons all around look back at me: Why are you doing this to your kid?

I want her to think of the church as a peaceful refuge. For Greeks, our church is also our community center. Growing up, we socialized with other kids, and it brought a sentiment of solidarity to all make fun of our parents’ accents and primal yearning to cook lamb on a spit in the front yard. We all learned Greek, and some of us found spouses. Being a part of a Greek church gave me roots, traditions, and a feeling of community. Never mind that it’s a never-ending fountain of comedic material.

I want Ilaria to think of church as a place she can always come to, at the very least to gather her thoughts. When I was in preproduction for
My Big Fat Greek Wedding,
we lost three friends. Three. As my career dream was coming true, three friends were dealing with the reality of disease and lost their lives. They were in their thirties and died of illnesses they were too young to get. I had come to this church, sat in a back pew, and asked God if there was some reason at all that would make sense to take three people before they’d really lived. There isn’t an answer that will ever satisfy me or anyone, but I did find tranquillity at that church. I had always been welcomed, the parishioners had made my stage show a success, and we’d been members for a long time. It made sense that I would baptize my daughter here.

But Ilaria has another plan. Ian and I cannot console her. She is screaming that this must stop. Rita is soothing her, softly whispering that the baptismal font is just like a warm bath. I watch my friend Rita. Our shared background is what immediately bonded us the night we met in that small theater. We
knew
each other right away. And because of our same culture, we moved so easily into a friendship. I want Ilaria to know this sense of community. Being Greek is so much more than the tzatziki-sauce-garlic-breath jokes I make. I am immensely proud of my heritage and therefore want to pass it on to my daughter. I now look up at Tom. He looks back at me with a nod, as in, it’ll be okay. In that moment, I see him not as Tom the movie star, not as Tom my friend, but as a parent. I see he knows that sometimes as the parent, you just have to do what you think is right for your child.

I glance at my own parents, my siblings, my nieces and nephews. They’re all waiting to see what I will do.

Now, as I said, I am not a grown-up. I would rather take Ilaria now and run off to join a circus than cause her pain. Ilaria is shrieking and pointing at the cauldron of water as if we’re about to make a broth out of her. I look at Ian and think . . .
This
isn’t a wrong choice we’re doing here, is it?

I just want her to have some traditions and community in her life. This is a symbol that I am trusting God with her life. So I make a decision and, just like that, I dunk her in the basin. And Ilaria goes apeshit.

She is completely furious at all of us.