Mommywood (7 page)

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.

I know Liam didn‘t have the time of his life and won‘t even remember the party. I know that, on some level, it was an excuse to gather my friends together. But looking around that day I felt like everyone who came was instrumental in our lives. They‘d all known me throughout my pregnancy. They‘d known Liam since he was born. His party may have been wasted on Liam, but it wasn‘t purely selfish. I hoped that Liam would grow up knowing that he was surrounded and celebrated and loved by our close friends and us. This was his family.

Here‘s what I learned from Liam‘s first party: I would have had an amazing time if it had been a smaller party, with just the close friends who know my day-to-day life. We invited one hundred people. It felt like an event, not my son‘s birthday party. I go to so many events and it‘s usually the same drill.

Sometimes we‘ll take friends, like Bill and Scout, to an Emmy party or a similar event. Afterward they always say that it was so much fun. The buffet, the bar, great music, a couple of people they know. But for me, parties like that are always about doing business—schmoozing and talking to fans. Both are important, but they suck up all the time that I might have spent talking to friends, having a drink, or exploring the buffet. I never make it to the food. People stop me every inch of the way. Afterward someone will say, ―Oh, there was great art in that space. I never see any of it. I get into a room and don‘t move forward. Once I went to an NBC/Universal event with NBC affiliates and press. I made it four feet into the room, stayed in that one spot an hour and a half, and then we left. I never made it past the door.

At Liam‘s party there weren‘t any businesspeople. It was all people we cared about. People who cared about Liam. But when I‘m hosting people I don‘t see very often, I spend the whole party playing catch-up. I felt like I greeted people from beginning to end. Dozens of five-minute conversations with people and my child‘s birthday was over. I was pregnant, and at the end of it all I was exhausted. We went home and I had to go straight to bed. All I could think was,
Thank God Dean and I got
married alone.

Okay, here‘s what you should be thinking right now:
Wow,
an elaborate party that ends up being more about her than her
child? She
is
her mother!
Now wait a second, no need for insults. I get it. I see the similarities. But here‘s the difference, and it all comes back to this whole Mommywood desire I have to raise normal, healthy children despite the crazy, weird world we live in: Liam may not want Hansen‘s cake forever. He may not want theme parties. And as soon as it‘s clear that he wants something else—boom. It‘s over. I want him to grow up understanding that he‘s unique and important, and that means

―his days really are about him, his mother‘s wishes be damned.

I know it can be hard reconciling your fantasies of who your children will be with who they are. My friend Jenny, who lets her three-year-old daughter, Delilah, dress herself, says sometimes it‘s torture to see the adorable dresses hanging ignored in the closet. One time we met at a restaurant and Delilah was wearing a halter dress that was probably designed to be worn with a T-shirt underneath. Her little nipples were showing above the top of the dress. She was totally happy and comfortable. But what seemed to be rankling Jenny most were Delilah‘s shoes. ―I mean, would you ever wear those shoes with that dress? she said. It was really offending her sense of style. I was enjoying Jenny‘s obvious anguish, but she said, ―Just you wait. It‘ll happen to you too, and when it does, it‘s heartbreaking.

I thought back on the prissy pastel Bonwit Teller dresses that my mother made me wear year after year. And that stupid bob cut she insisted the hairdresser give me. Who knows why I didn‘t or couldn‘t rebel, but if next year Liam doesn‘t want another big party and would rather sit in a sandbox with a plain old cupcake, I‘ll be fine with it. When Liam is old enough to express himself, I‘ll do everything I can to make sure I listen and give him the parties that he wants. And should I overdo it, I‘ll let him hang out in his high chair, munching a banana, if that‘s his preference. Of course I mean this for both my children.

If someday in the not-too-distant future our baby girl walks out in a green dress with orange socks and blue shoes or, even worse, insists on a bob, I don‘t think I‘ll be heartbroken. I think the ten-year-old in me will take vicarious pleasure in my daughter‘s freedom. And then maybe the ten-year-old in me will go ask my mother what happened to all those Madame Alexander dolls she gave me every year but ultimately kept for herself.