Instant Mom (18 page)

Three months later, as I cross all the items off my list, I achieve my goal and sleep eight full hours . . . and I wake up so rested, I check to see if there are bluebirds chirping around my head.

I’ll admit, I am quite pleased with myself as I yawn and stretch in bed this morning. I mentally resolve to stick to this regimen and not add one more thing to my day . . . when Ilaria walks in to ask me to become her preschool’s room mom.

As my mouth says, “Yes,” my brain screams, “Noooooooooo.”

• 21 •

More Than Our Bodies

My four-year-old daughter is
growing long legs and straight, long rock-’n’-roll hair. I’m not equipped to raise a cool girl. A nerd with bangs hiding a pimple-terrained forehead and glasses covering half her face, yes, I’m that girl’s mentor. But if there’s one thing I will not squelch in my daughter, it’s her natural body confidence. That, I also have. But I had it when I was heavier too. I’m not saying I’ll shop for groceries in a thong, I’m just saying I never abhorred or reveled in my physicality.

Here’s one thing I used to eye-roll—slim actresses on a red carpet answering the workout-regimen question with a lying shrug “I just have a fast metabolism” or “I run after my kids.” But now I know why some actresses say it, and even I once said it too to make my publicist laugh. Because if I answer thirty questions about screenwriting or adoption but just one about weight, just
one
. . . the
entire
article will only be about weight loss with a title: “I Broke Up With Cheese.”

My weight loss is lauded and applauded, which is just asinine. Let’s be frank, I don’t look that good, yet there have been rumors of plastic surgery and a face-lift. The only thing I can say in my defense is (1) you know I’d tell you and (2) would I keep this nose?

Many reporters constantly feel the need to ask me for my “diet secret.” Aren’t we all sick of this innocuous topic? Aren’t we all tired of headlines “Thin Is Out.” Or “Thin Is In,” “She’s a Full-Figured Beauty,” “Actresses Who Have Real Woman Bodies.” Puh-leeze. Is it quixotic of me to request we stop letting our psyches be trampled by the media’s desire to cajole us that no woman’s accomplishment is as lofty and exalted as fitting again into our high school jeans?

But it’s not just the press. Strangers comment on my weight loss. A woman in my new workout class screamed, “What have you done? You look amaaaaaaaaahhhhzing,” as if I was Jabba the Hut before. A reminder: I was never Guinness-record-book fat. Admittedly, I’ll never be model skinny. Oh yes, I would love to be model skinny for a day or two. It’d be terrific to sulkily slink into a retro lounge and have every brooding male model wish he was hot enough to be with me. But this is never going to happen. I will never look like those women. Which is why I write romantic comedies in which I, EveryWoman, trip into some bar and kiss the guys way out of my league. This is my job, ladies, and I do it for all of us. But mostly for me. Here’s probably the only career tip in this whole book: if you’re going to write and act in your own movies, always write a line where the guy calls you pretty.

I’m not super disciplined and so harmoniously balanced that I churn my own vegan butter, but I have to keep it together or I blow up, resulting in the complete loss of energy I’ve described.

So to be in control, I weigh myself every morning. But my daughter never knew what I was doing. Once, as soon as I got off the scale, Ilaria got on it and declared, “Yup, three years old.” I never weighed myself in front of her again.

I never talk about weight or calories in my daughter’s presence. I tell her I walk on our treadmill to get energy. It’s true: that treadmill keeps my weight down or I feel sluggish. And by sluggish, I mean I’ll look like a gray slimy slug.

I want my daughter to know she’s in control of her own body, but I try to not make her entire existence be about her appearance—I don’t constantly comment on how “cute” she is. I try to empower her by asking, “Who do you like to play with?” or “What’s your favorite book?” Yes, sometimes I do blurt out how cute she is, because most of the outlandish outfits kids put together are reminiscent of a
Grey Gardens
character, so I can’t help it.

But here’s the thing about Ilaria and how she thinks—on that day she first tasted strawberry ice cream, I noticed she did something I’ve never seen before. She ate a bit of the ice cream, truly enjoyed it . . . and handed it back to me.

This is not how a Vardalos eats. We push past the point of full. When I was growing up, at family gatherings, we’d overload a plate at the buffet, then after dinner, lie down on various couches and make each other laugh until we could eat some more. We’re happy and emotional eaters. I’m not familiar with a person who has a natural shutoff valve.

If I could, I would eat cake every ten minutes, but I have to be cautious or I’ll turn my veins into crème brûlée. If there’s anything I do know how to do now, it’s shut my pie hole. So I take advantage of my daughter’s natural leaning away from the Vardalos “if your stretch pants haven’t ripped, you’re not fat” mantra. I grit my teeth and pinkie-swear myself that I will help her stay healthy but not have food issues. I want my daughter to grow up in a world where women are more than their bodies. That self-confidence that’s already in her has to be reinforced by Ian and me so she is impervious to media images, peer pressure, and stupid human comments.

So I never use the word
treat
for a sweet food. “Treat” means a toy or trip. I’ve established a lingo: Growing Food and Sometime Food. I tell her a sandwich and apple are foods we need to eat to “grow” and a cookie or ice cream is something we have “sometimes.” I say “sometimes” and do a huge shrug as if, hey, it’s no big deal. Inwardly, I wonder if she knows I could eat a bag of Oreos in the time it takes me to explain this to her. I do my best to help her choose “growing” foods for meals. I don’t congratulate her for finishing an entire meal or admonish her for calorically high food requests like chocolate chip pancakes for dinner. Twice we’ve gone out to a local café and ordered those and it takes all the pressure off it as an out-of-reach dream food. It’s only eight semisweet chocolate chips, and she never finishes the pancakes anyway. I’m trying to not make “sometime” foods so desirable they become binge-worthy. I myself eat chocolate every day. Yes, every day. A little bit every day makes me never eat a lot of it. Why do I eat it? (1) It’s delicious. And (2) because if this is the day I get hit by a bus, I don’t want my last thought to be,
Shoulda had the chocolate
.

With Ilaria, I am trying everything I know to bolster her natural inclination toward not overeating. But at the same time, if she ends up gaining weight, so what? As I said, I was a fat and happy kid. I have a natural self-confidence that is frustrating to the many directors who have made comments about my weight. When I hear a director make a comment about my weight, I do my best work as I “act” like I can’t hear them.

I once had a female costumer who seemed to need to exert power over me by being nasty about my weight. I had never encountered this before from a woman. On
Connie and Carla,
when I was struggling with my fluctuating weight because of fertility treatments, our costumer Ruth Myers was kind and understanding and went out of her way to make me feel attractive in my costumes. My stylist Jessica Paster is always nurturing and kind. But this woman on this project had a peculiar attitude about weight. I was slim at the time, but she kept trying to put me in cavernous clothes that looked suspiciously reminiscent of Golden Girls muumuus. I pored through the clothing racks, wondering if maybe I wasn’t comprehending my role. She now showed me Polaroids of what the other actresses were wearing. They were all slim, but according to this costumer, every one of these actresses was “too fat for film.” Clearly this woman’s perception was skewed and could not be changed. She was a Fat-ist. As I turned to reach for a smaller shirt on the costume rack, she actually pushed it away from me, grabbed my stomach, and said, “I’m just trying to help you hide this.”

Even though my stomach was flat thanks to months of Pilates and Cardio Barre classes. I have an almost irresponsible lack of concern about my body. This came from growing up in my family where you were noticed for how funny you were, not how you looked. This was further reinforced by my years of working at Second City. In Joyce’s world, you weren’t promoted and applauded for being hot; you were esteemed for being smart and funny. By the way, acting is about honesty in your eyes, not hiding your stomach in a boxy housedress. Small secret: most film scenes are shot from the waist up anyway.

But in that moment, with my stomach in that costumer’s hands, I stared down with horror. No matter how impervious one is to criticism, nobody enjoys their flab kneaded like bread dough and declared a hideous flaw. Now . . . we Canadians are nice but we’re not pushovers. We get you back and you don’t even know. I made it my personal goal to drive this woman nuts.

As I’ve mentioned, although I’m not fanatical about it every day, I do have to eat very healthfully. When filming, my energy level stays so high because I consume six small meals a day and avoid sugar and white starch completely. But for this entire shoot, when I saw that costumer anywhere on the set, I would head for the Craft Services cart, grab the gooiest, plumpest fried donut . . . and walk by her while pretending to eat it. She’d gasp at the visual of an actress eating a carbohydrate and loudly bray, “Your costume won’t fit if you eat that,” and I’d shrug and say, “Oh well, it’ll have to be let out then, huh?” I’d then turn the corner and dump the donut into a garbage can so I wouldn’t faint from the glucose. I’ll admit it brought me immense satisfaction to see her flummoxed.

It also brings me great joy to see my girlfriends laugh when I tell them the story. Sure, we are at the gym when I tell them. Which is why I tell them now . . . because we are out of my daughter’s earshot.

• 22 •

Mother Nurture

Please excuse the “quips
and tales” coming now. The truth is, most people think their own kids are charming in the same way everyone secretly loves their own feet no matter how Jurassic their toes are. I am only including these stories for this discussion of nature versus nurture.

A bonus in raising a child you don’t have a biological tie to is you will never saddle them with watching their every move and declaring their musical talent as “that’s from your dad’s side; his old Auntie Beulah played pianola.” Or their bad penmanship as “well, there’s Grandpa Frank’s meat paws once again.”

Also, when someone says, “Your daughter is beautiful,” you don’t have to murmur modestly. You can just boomingly and boisterously concur at the gorgeousness that is your kid and even point out her perfect bow mouth and tiny fairy ears, ’til that person backs away slowly.

The benefit in raising the child you got to adopt is you just get to watch them unfold and become who they are. Ilaria is unfolding with ease and grace. She is doing really well, and, interestingly, she is still continuing to adapt to her environment.

In that first year we became a family, I got to have my first Mother’s Day and it was a disaster of course. Because for years I didn’t want to even venture out of the house on that day, Ian had made a celebratory brunch reservation at a fancy-pants place. But we were seated way too close to an older persnickety couple who gave us the stink-eye when Ilaria banged on the table with her spoon. I couldn’t even look at them when she spilled an entire glass of milk and it cascaded like a flowing albino river across our table and theirs. When Ian reached for the milk glass, he spilled all our beverages, and I tried to help but instead flung their basket of bread on their laps and the floor. Ian and I locked eyes. Ah, perfect. Our mouths twitch. Because the more awkward the situation, the more we want to laugh. Here’s the thing we then noticed: Ilaria saw us smiling at the maladroit mishap, and she was grinning too.

Father’s Day wasn’t much better—a trip to the beach involved Manny peeing right onto a stranger’s blanket. Again, Ilaria saw Ian and me laughing. I wondered if we should be admonishing Manny and steering him away, but c’mon, he’s a dog. Plus it’s funny. It was extra awkward because the person whose blanket he’d peed on had been uptight since we’d all arrived like the loudest and clumsiest band of street musician grifters complete with a Tupperware of aromatic feta cheese. We couldn’t help laughing. But we worry more grown-up parents would hide subversive reactions from their daughter. Should we be doing that?

In these first eighteen months, I am still trying to fully grasp that I’m the one in charge here. Today after the park, I’m making lunch when I notice a dark spot inside my daughter’s ear. I peer in . . . and come face-to-face with a disgusting, wiggling tick. Without hesitating, I grab tweezers and as I pull it out, think,
Yuck, this is what a mom should do. Oh riiiight,
I’m
a mom.

I’m just not completely comfortable yet. Maybe nerds never feel like they belong anywhere.

Conversely, I am in awe of how confident my daughter is.

She now takes the tweezers and holds my face steady so she can get the “crazy hair” out of my eyebrow. This is her new pursuit—she delicately uses the tweezers to do everything from pulling crabgrass from the yard to removing those teeny Playmobil pieces that stealthily work their way back into the living room to get wedged in the fat part of adult soles. Ian and I marvel at her manual dexterity mostly because we fantasize about retiring and having our daughter the brain surgeon take care of us. She is fascinated with friends’ cuts and older relatives’ surgical stitches and isn’t squeamish at all. One time as I seasoned pieces of short ribs spread out on the kitchen counter, Ilaria picked up each one and inspected the marbling and bones. Then she asked, “Is this from a human?” Blegh. I feel like if I’d stated, “Yes, I bludgeoned Auntie Renee and now we’ll eat her,” Ilaria would only tell me it’s wrong to hit.

Our friend Brian had meniscus surgery and the stitches are due out today. Because his doctor is across the city, Brian asked if he could just remove the five stitches himself and the doctor agreed it would be all right. But because Brian knows Ilaria so well, he comes over and asks me if he can get her to do it. I’m videotaping her now as she wears surgical gloves and is sterilizing the entire bathroom area with rubbing alcohol. She admonishes Brian to stay still, leans into his wound, then gently snips and pulls out the stitches. She is so methodical and unfazed by the gash, I’m fast-forwarding in my mind to when I’ll play this tape at her medical school graduation party. Or parole board hearing. When she is finished, she pats Brian, tells him he is a good patient and to go to the front lobby and choose a toy.

For a crafts project, we make a dog costume using brown leggings and cut-out white felt polka dots. Ilaria wears it every day. I mean every day. We’re walking to the drugstore when a brash boy gets right in her face on the sidewalk and goads, “Why are you wearing that?,” and she looks him dead in the eye and laughs. “I don’t know.” She stares him down . . . until he sheepishly admits, “It’s cool.” My daughter has more confidence than that lady we’ve all heard moan in exercise class. You know her. My own dance class is big, chock-full with people, and after all these years I still can’t spot who The Moaner is. But I admire that she can just release that guttural, ecstatic moan in front of us all and clearly not care what we think. I wonder if all kids are just naturally confident until we tell them they’re wrong or too loud or in the way.

Last year, I had to travel for work and Ilaria was so well behaved on a plane, the flight attendants even commented on it (inner back pat). Maybe it was the DVD player and six kid movies, coloring books, nine dolls plus other junk I lugged around. By the way, I am bemused by how people watch me parent, and in close quarters like on a plane, there’s no escaping prying eyes. From a restaurant to the park, I hear them whisper “big fat Greek girl” then watch me admonish my daughter for winging a bun at my eardrum. I wish I had the nerve to say to these people, “Um, I’m not watching you scarfing that hoagie or leaving pee on the toilet seat; how about ya turn around while I do human stuff too?”

One time I happened to meet a man who told me he’d once sat behind us on a plane trip from Los Angeles to New York. I am not being coy, as disingenuous as this may sound: I am still surprised to be recognized. I remember that flight—the airline reservation agent did not recognize me at all and I recall her tongue almost caught on fire trying to pronounce my last name. She started with “Valdro . . . Veros . . . Vart-vart” then defaulted to “Have a good flight, Nina.” I don’t take being recognized for granted, so it’s unexpected to discover I’m sometimes being watched, spied on, as I parent. Even though this man was being complimentary on how I speak to my daughter respectfully, empowering her with choices, he was revealing he had eavesdropped on us for the entire plane trip.

So I just keep trying to do the best I can with an audience because, really, they don’t realize they’re staring. I’ll admit if I was sitting behind Steven Tyler and his kids, I’d absolutely lean an ear against that seat and listen in too. Curiosity is just human. By the way, years ago my mom gave me some of her always-astute advice (in our family, we’ve named these nuggets “Doreenies”). Way before people even had phones with cameras my mom once told me: “Always conduct yourself as if a video camera is on you at all times.” Judicious advice. Other Doreenies include: “Just put some lipstick on and you’ll feel better.” And “There’s no better feeling of confidence than the one that comes with having a black tie dress in your closet and a moussaka in your freezer.”

Anyway, it’s good advice to always conduct yourself with dignity, but Ian and I forget this all too often. Another time Ian, Ilaria, and I were flying together for work and were seated in first class. As we all took our seats, a couple saw Ilaria and grumbled about how a four-year-old wouldn’t behave well enough for the front cabin. The woman boozily told us, in her opinion anyone under twenty-one years of age shouldn’t be in first class. I just nodded and smiled courteously as my brain gave her the finger. On the flight, Ilaria barely spoke and fell asleep, yet this woman and her husband got so drunk they got into a fight with another passenger. It was a case of air rage, and the flight attendants had to intervene and calm them all down. As Boozilla burped and hunched back into her seat, Ian and I were goading each other to tap the couple on a shoulder and say, “Would you mind keeping your voices down, you’re disturbing our sleeping daughter,” but we didn’t want to get coldcocked. Of course, because we’re not grown-ups, we couldn’t just let it go. Later, the couple was passed out and snoring and I got up to remove my purse from the overhead bin. Ian pushed me and I fell against their seats, jolting them awake. I threw my purse at Ian and we were both cracking up . . . until I saw Ilaria watching. She laughed too . . . but were we setting a good example? I don’t think so.

But then again, she has always seemed remarkably solid and self-assured. On a trip to Toronto, Ilaria meets Kathy Greenwood, John, and their two girls. I’m not just saying this next part because Kathy will read this book (she will—twice), but their children are remarkably benevolent and considerate. In preparation for our arrival, they have sweetly pulled out all their toys to share. Almost immediately Ilaria is playing with the girls as Kathy and I grip each other’s forearms with glee. The girls all jump up and down on the couch cushions, I feel like I’m seeing it in the dream Kathy and I shared of this day when we’d be mothers. The girls’ hair flies up, as if in slow motion. It all feels thoroughly surreal, and Kathy and I cannot even look at each other or we will lose it and scare our daughters with our “ugly cry” faces.

Suddenly, Ilaria slips, and my blood pressure drops. But before I can even move, she quickly rights herself, looks at Kathy and me, and declares “I’m okay!” in that worldly way she has.

Kathy exclaims, “Okay, I
love
her.”

Ilaria is adept and competent. She could have milked that little slip with maximum tears for attention and Kathy’s homemade cookies but she doesn’t bother. She lets us know it’s all good and to carry on. By the way, I knew my best friend would love my daughter, but to hear her say it out loud is wonderful. I see the moment as a testament to what good things can come your way when you have a best friend who is honest with you. And you listen.

Ilaria has become extremely
sociable as well. Now that we’ve managed to get some rest (because I sleep eight hours and she sleeps ten!), we have reinstated the fun loud adult dinners at our place. I suspect this need to have people over is in my heritage. I just enjoy it, and I’d really missed it. But as a parent, I would prefer not going out as often so I can be home for bedtime. With Core around for dinner parties, it’s loud and fun at our house again.

We also invite people over we don’t know that well. This was inspired years ago by a dinner invitation to Mary Steenburgen and Ted Danson’s. We didn’t know them that well, but we accepted the invitation. It was so much fun, very comfortable, and we found out most of the guests didn’t know each other either. Mary announced that’s what people used to do—she and Malcolm McDowell would invite colleagues they admired over to dinner—so she was keeping the tradition alive. Mary advised they all got to know one another better in a more intimate setting than they ever could at a professional event. So Ian and I started doing it too. It’s not like I just go up to Sean Penn and ask him over for a chimichanga in our backyard. It’s much more organic than that—if Ian or I find ourselves chatting with a colleague we like—famous or not—and they suggest we keep in touch, we exchange info. Then we invite them over for a holiday party, loud dinner, or casual barbecue with a few members of the ever-sociable Core to buffer and start conversations so it’s not awkward. These new friends come back often, maybe because we never hit anyone up for fundraising or hand out a religious pamphlet. We don’t take pictures, so guests feel comfortable undoing their pants after dinner knowing they won’t end up on my Twitter page. Hanging out is a much better way to get to know people than standing around an event with your stomach sucked in because press cameras are around. (Maybe just I do that.) Also, I don’t panic if more people show up at my home than I anticipated . . . because I take my mom’s advice and always have an extra moussaka in the freezer.

Ilaria now helps me cook the meal and set the dining room table, then gets to stay up for an extra thirty minutes to welcome everyone. We request her to do “eyes-to-eyes” when greeting adults but no need—she is not shy. She holds court, loudly telling everyone about the boy she’s chosen to marry or explaining exactly how she fingerpainted a mustache on Manny. She’s not precocious or performative, so I see adults are drawn to her. Like many a Vardalos girl before her, she enjoys hostessing. I learned from my mom to set out Post-it-note-labeled serving dishes and utensils beforehand, then tape a “running order” of the entire dinner so I won’t forget the rolls in the oven. If I happen to make fewer potatoes than I estimated for, I just whisper to Core my own family’s signal to lay back on that dish: “FHB” (stands for “Family Hold Back”). My mom also taught me nothing that occurs during a party is so egregious that you can’t scramble and cover. This covers all aspects of life—from my wedding day when I slipped on a hailstone and fell into the limo, to when I was nominated for a Golden Globe Award and turned on the red carpet to wave madly to the cheering stands, thus ripping the entire armpit out of my gown. Thanks to my mom’s entertaining advice, if my dog sat on the dessert, I’d microwave Popsicles and call it sorbet (I won’t admit in print I’d serve the dessert anyway). So to me Ilaria’s jovial attitude is pitch-perfect as she asks arriving adult guests if they would like a juice box. I’m not telling you this to brag (okay, a little); I’m telling you this to point out that less than two years after her arrival, there aren’t any traces left of the angry behavior of the withdrawn, pale toddler who kicked and punched her way into our hearts. Fortunately, her personality is the same as the day we met her.