Instant Mom (21 page)

Ilaria also sees how much time I have to do things with her is the direct result of being organized, even though I’m leaning over the perimeter of obsessiveness when I find myself making lists of lists I have to make. She sees how many jobs I have—from acting to writing, there is a multitude of fittings, script meetings, charity work, and interviews—and I never pant and panic in a whirl of chaos. As I’ve mentioned, my own ability to multitask with composure came from my mom. So I know Ilaria seeing how calmly I approach things, treating everyone with a smile and respect, will be the best example I can teach her on manners. Especially when I want to scream “shut-up-shut-up-shut-up” at the checkout guy who’s taking forever with our groceries while telling us about his band.

Also, Ian and I have Ilaria take responsibility for filling her own little backpack with the things she’ll need for the preschool day—the snack we made her, the book she likes, a show-and-tell item. (She tries to cram Louie in there too.) It helps her think through her day and be accountable. However, lately in the mornings, I can’t take my eyes off her—it’s only been a little over two years and already she seems so grown up as she dresses herself. Sometimes I just want to baby her, so I put on her little socks and shoes. I can’t help it. I remember when we adopted her, friends would ask, “How is the baby?” and Ian and I would be quick to point out she was a toddler. Now we look back at pictures and see she was a baby. And like every mom, I see she’s growing so quickly I want to put a heavy brick on her head.

So we are very careful to raise her in an environment outside all that is Hollywood . . . but we truly pamper her on one day: In our house, we don’t just have Mother’s Day and Father’s Day—once a year, we also celebrate Daughter Day. This is our way of acknowledging the day we met as the day Ilaria became our daughter. Daughter Day is spent celebrating with presents and cake and even a drive down to Disneyland. All day we do the things Ilaria wants to do and we celebrate meeting her. We talk about her memories from before she became our daughter, and the evening ends with her requesting if we can “do the thing”—she loves the story and it’s comforting to her to reenact how we all met. So she crouches in bed to pretend she’s in a social worker’s arms, and Ian and I walk toward her. She does the same thing she did that day—she turns and smiles. Now I say out loud: “Oh, I found you.” And we all celebrate how we became a family the instant we met.

• 25 •

Navigating Mom World

“Where is Ilaria going
to school next year?”

I mumble “I’m not sure” as the inquiring mom lists her top choices and explains which curriculum is best for her child. The truth is, I don’t know how to interpret the ambiguous Los Angeles school system. I buy a book and try to figure out how to get into a charter school, which public school is in our neighborhood, and what is the difference between a progressive private school and a traditional magnet school. Caught, I stare at the mom asking the question and mutter, “In Canada, we just went to the igloo up the street,” while pretending to look for something in my purse. But I’m taking this seriously.

Am I doing my daughter a disservice if I don’t get her into “the right school”?

Other moms seem to know what they’re doing—so much more than I do.

Although Ilaria is now absolutely comfortable in her home, I’m still not completely at ease being a mom. I thought it would come with a wisdom, an all-knowing seer-like confidence. But no. I’m not like that naturally. I mean, I’m so naive, I had a coyote in my house. So I ask a lot of questions. I’ve had the benefit of watching my mom, siblings, and friends parent long before I became a mom, so I gleaned good information off them. The women (yes, and men!) of Core have also been very helpful and loving throughout this entire experience. But the best thing I’ve noticed about parenting is you get to talk to people you may not have ever met. I get to have tremendously informative and valuable conversations at a play structure or waiting in the ballet class lobby. The moms are great.

Los Angeles is laidback in that many parents are in the industry, so most moms don’t care what I do for a living. They either don’t recognize me, don’t care that I’m an actress, or don’t like my movies. I’m simply another mom, and I appreciate that I’m in this club. The conversations are so interesting and on a vast array of subjects from finding time to work to weaning kids off a sippy cup. I appreciate it when a mom at a birthday party will offer a website: “Hey, there’s a new collapsible water bottle that’s made out of the good plastic” or “Instead of astringent soap I just pour a cup of baking soda in my kid’s bath” (which I immediately switched to and it even pH balances our lady-parts).

I love the moms I’m meeting—I love them in a gushy way. I have encountered wonderfully warm women with excellent stories and tips from a good sunscreen to the best app to identify convicted predators in your neighborhood.

I do shush anyone who says, “Oh I’m just a stay-at-home mom.” Now that I know what it takes, I vociferously declare, until everyone at the yogurt shop stares, that “There’s no such thing as
just
a mom.”

I don’t know how my own mom did it—four kids in eight years? How did she do it so humbly, never needing her own parade to fete her? I want to make her and every mom a shiny neon-glitter-festooned badge: “Chauffeur. Private Chef. Hypnotherapist.” It’s the most challenging job I’ve ever done. Because the Me years are over. When you become a mom, you come second from now on. My brain is all about my daughter now. I keep a running tally in my head of her schedule, what she’s eaten from dawn to dusk, the email addresses of the moms of which friends she’s asked me to plan playdates with, plus a detailed diagram of the fastest route from school to soccer to home in time to defrost a chicken and pull off that conference call while she’s washing her hands. So I value any advice from the exceptional moms I’m meeting.

I don’t even dodge the moms with Beautiful Woman Syndrome who wear Lululemon workout wear all day and stand too close as they “You should” the rest of us. If one of these moms overhears me asking about anything from a healthy bread to a school’s curriculum, hastily they point a finger and proclaim, “You should sign up for elementary school orientation tours by now or she won’t get in.” Or “You should have her in gymnastics or she won’t make a junior volleyball team.” Or “You should only give her almond milk or she’ll grow breasts on her back.” Even though their perfectly groomed Children Of The Corn spawn look at me as if I could use a shower and some microdermabrasion, I now feel great affection for these women even as I try to outrun their teeny yoga butts. I like them because they know a lot. And, I’ll take someone with BWS over a member of the Coven any day.

I’ll admit, some advice makes me nervous when I hear if I don’t have Ilaria in certain developmental programs by now or if she doesn’t go to the right elementary school, she won’t get into an Ivy League college. Maybe I’m just lazy, but she just turned five. . . . I don’t mind if Ilaria is a bit unruly and unfocused or goes to the wrong kindergarten. I don’t care if her pigtails are like a cat’s yarn by the time she gets to ballet. It’s fine if she steps through a puddle to get into the car. If giving her cow’s milk means she doesn’t go to college, that’s okay.

My favorite thing to see is her getting into the bath at the end of a day. The dirtier her hands, ankles, and knees are, the more fun I know she’s had. I am hoping I don’t get caught up in the zeal of achieving through my child’s life. I see it in some parents’ eyes—they want their children to have the great, pain-free, and amazing lives they didn’t have. Essentially, we all want our kid to have a better life than we did. But adversity and conflict build character. If Ilaria’s destiny is living on a foreign country’s beach selling woven-grass necklaces, that’s her choice. If she achieves greatness (as that tweezers-wielding brain surgeon), so be it.

I think it’s my parental obligation to let her be who she is. I must clench my fists at my sides, grit my teeth until they shatter, and let her form her own opinions . . . even if she disagrees with me. (Gasp, even if she doesn’t like purses.) As someone who’s fond of being in charge, I must find a way to stand back and let her make her mistakes. Oh, I’m not saying I’ve found my “bliss” and am so groovy I’d give grass-weaving the thumbs-up after twelve years of private school tuition.

But, I simply want my daughter to have a good life. More so, I want her to be happy and make her own life choices. So if I ask you to write her a recommendation letter to Harvard . . . please tell me no.

• 26 •

Run Like a Girl

I can tell this
nice woman is only being polite. I know I should stop talking. Instead, I grin broadly at her and continue:

“ . . . and Ilaria said a kid at the park called someone fat and the mom said it’s a bad word. Now, I don’t think ‘fat’ is a bad word at all. We attach a lot of value to certain words and therefore cause them to become painful. So I tell her, ‘fat’ is a
powerful
word and while some people don’t like it, in our family, we don’t mind it. I remind her of all the people she loves who have fat tummies, from Santa to some of our relatives, heh, heh.”

Oh no, my awkward crazy laugh is back. Because I know I should stop pontificating. The cordial woman stares back at me. Her expression, while still polite, is saying,
Is there a point to your nattering?

I should stop blabbing at this very lovely woman whose eyes I have bored shut. She’d merely stepped forward to welcome us to the New Parents reception of Ilaria’s elementary school. Now she’s trapped by my child-rearing oration.

I don’t know where Ian went, and I can’t close my yapper. Why on earth did he leave me alone?

On the car ride over to this adult event, we’d had another warning talk with each other about making a good impression at the new school—no wife-swap jokes was again first of the no-no’s. But talking too much was the next and biggest item on our list. Our conundrum is that being parents is still so new for us. You know the pure glee on a dog’s face as he hangs out the car window panting with joy? That’s what we look like all the time. We’re so happy, we beam odious perma-grins. When anyone asks us about Ilaria, we blab their ears off.

If we met us, we’d
hate
us. Subsequently, before parties Ian and I remind and warn each other to be cool.

But he’d left me alone, I locked down some eye contact, and I immediately waxed rhapsodic on my harebrained theories of parenting.

I look around: where, where, where is Ian? I need him to hold my lips shut. I cannot stop talking about my daughter. I now blurt out:

“To develop her ability to reason, I allow her to argue, to prove her point to me. Today, she wanted to go to the park, and I asked, ‘Why do you think you should get to go to the park?’ She said she read a book and fed the dogs, so she deserves a treat. I said, ‘Okay, you win.’ I know when she’s a teen, this will bite me on the butt! Heh, heh, heh.”

Oh. God.

I make myself turn away from this kind woman who has surely resisted the urge to plug my gullet with a cocktail weenie. But I can’t help myself, and now turn back to add just one more thing:

“I limit adult topics but don’t believe in editing words. It’s not like our friends are filthy drunken sailors but adults do swear. I don’t make a big deal of it; I say those are words adults use when they can’t think of a better way to describe something. And that she can say those words when she’s as tall as me, heh, hehhhhhhh.”

Oh, I truly wish I could choke on something to suppress my bogus chortle. Still no sign of Ian. I now decide he is playing a joke on me by leaving me alone here. Yes, of course, he’s done it on purpose! He’s probably behind a potted plant tittering into his giant hand. In my head, I plot ways to get him back and decide I will tell his costar Courteney Cox he has a secret but debilitating crush on her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the woman I’ve been irking is backing away from me. It’s all right. I’m done. Because I have actually put my hand over my mouth. But now I can’t stop nodding vigorously, eye buggedly, with voracious eagerness at her. I think she’s scared.

Swiftly, she passes me a tray of appetizers. I fervently cram a cheese puff in my gob so I can’t blab anymore. Finally and suddenly, Ian is there. He feels the tension in the air, shoots me an “oh no, you’ve been yammering” look, and takes me aside so I can chew and calm down. I slowly do.

I look around at the parents who will become our friends for the next several years. They’re all friendly, they seem as excited as us to begin school—

Suddenly, I tear up. Oh no, I’m bawling. Dammit, I’m That Mom. I don’t want to be
that
blubbery mom with running mascara who everybody talks about on their car ride home. This gathering was organized so we can meet each other since our kids will be going through school together. I want to make a good impression. But I am suddenly overwhelmed with memories of the last few years flashing around my cranium like a laser light show of Ilaria’s many expressions. I can’t look at Ian or I will burst into gelatinous tears.

Like the ousted contestant’s see-ya-later clip on
American Idol,
I see the images zip by of everything we’ve been through in less than three years with Ilaria. I see myself rocking her at a kids’ concert, cradling her on the Toon Town roller-coaster ride, lifting her up high to see her first fireworks. I’d held her from behind and experienced everything anew while leaning softly into her. These moments were lived with my tears in her hair.

Now she starts school. Are we actually here? This soon? Is this toddler who bravely walked into her new home now ready for elementary school?

I fear the answer is a resounding yes. But I’m not ready to let her go. How did this happen so soon? Around me, I hear moms lamenting they only had five or six years with their children. Inside I think:
I barely had three. It’s not fair. I want her home with me forever.
I look around . . . and I see the same fleeting thoughts on many parents’ faces. I become aware that everyone has the same expression.

This makes me realize something. Nothing prepared me for the love I would feel for my child. Nothing prepared me for how quickly it happened for me. And here’s what I just figure out now: no one is ever prepared. In a way, we’re all instant moms. I look around at all the parents, all the moms, all the dads—the emotions crossing their faces are the same ones Ian and I are feeling. Nothing prepared us for the daunting responsibility and love we feel for our children. All of us are instant parents trying to rise to the challenge of raising our children well. It is so daunting. And unfathomably wonderful.

When it comes to control, parents don’t get a safety bar to grip on this ride. I just have to grin through my chattering teeth and lean into every gut-churning dip. I see it all around me right now—I’m in a room of adults who know that sharp pang of nostalgia when we look at a picture of our child taken just yesterday.

Over the next several
days, there are orientation events to acclimate the kids to their new school. We all get to know one another. The parents and teachers are witty and kind, compassionate and warm.

A few days later, as we walk Ilaria in for the first day of school, she seems a little shy, but seeing her name on her new cubby brings a smile of belonging. This is a relief. I want her to enjoy this day. Once again, all the instances of turning down out-of-town work make sense. Being completely available to her so she could begin this experience with confidence and ease was the goal. And it worked. Minutes later, Ilaria is walking around her new classroom with her usual curiosity and comfort.

My concerns are mitigated about choosing the right educational institution for my daughter. It is a good fit. The fact that Ilaria is a student at this school in particular is yet another coincidence. This school is special to me because I had visited it a long time ago.

So I now take a few minutes and walk over to an area beside the gym. I have to see that railing. I need to do a ritual.

There it is. Slowly, I walk toward it.

I’d once stood at this exact railing years ago, so sad, yet so determined. This is the school I had been at four years ago, when I’d watched my friend’s daughter play volleyball.

I now take a step forward to stand on the specific area where I had decided to find out about foster care. This was the precise moment that led me to motherhood.

And I stand here again, years later, and take a deep breath.

Huh.

I expected this moment to be bigger. Monumental actually.

I at least thought I’d cry.

Nah. Not a drop. Time can turn a scab into a beauty mark.

Well, that’s done.

I go back to the school playground to find Ilaria playing with her new classmates. They shriek and scamper with abandon like puppies on caffeine.

Watching my daughter run, arms flailing, legs akimbo, just careening around—I think this is the most desirable state of happiness any of us could achieve. I never understood why it’s a pejorative announcement to accuse anyone of throwing or running like a girl.

Heedless of danger or fear or self-doubt, pitching your body headlong and forward is irrefutably a transcendent and preferred state of existence. I want to run like a girl. I want to be as unfettered and carefree as a young girl crisscrossing a field. I know now I never felt like a sophisticated adult because it just doesn’t come naturally to me. Maybe it never will. Maybe I just never ripened. Maybe that’s okay.

I suppose it’d be prudent to now abandon my pursuit of being a grown-up. Adults most certainly are supposed to be in charge, but I still do not feel like a grown-up. Sure, I talk a good game and carry a good purse, but I’m still obscenely immature. Except for enforcing chores and baptizing my daughter, I don’t feel like the adult in our relationship.

Motherhood has not brought the insight and evolvement I anticipated. What life lessons can I possibly pass on to my astute girl who seems to have more insight than I do? All I know is when I fiercely pursued my career goal, my determination was rewarded. But when I went zen and accepted there was a different motherhood path for me, I found happiness. Are we supposed to have a combination of both forces in us? Is this the overall goal? I’m not sure.

Because perhaps my childishness, my unrealistic optimism works for me. Maybe if I had grown up, I would have stopped dreaming, accepted reality, not have written my first movie . . . and never have found my daughter.

I now turn around and look at Ilaria again.

She is laughing and running.

I want to stay here and just watch her all day. I want to be a part of every moment of her life. I want to experience it all with her.

I wait and wait at the edge of the playground . . . until Ilaria looks over at me. She sees me . . . and smiles.

My heart lurches a bit.

She’s happy, she’s secure. She’s ready.

And I know it’s time for me to go now.