Instant Mom (11 page)

• 12 •

The Ritual

Of course there isn’t
a baby shower. It’s not just that there isn’t time for one, it’s because I hate them. I have left one too many stuffy houses on a Sunday afternoon with a throatful of egg salad and an empty aching uterus to inflict this same abuse on others.

Again, kids are not for everyone, yet the friends in Core have become amazing aunties and uncles to Ilaria. They’re all professionals with busy lives, but they make time to come over and hang with her.

In these first weeks, I watch Suzy and Ilaria lie on their tummies coloring with crayons. Jackie comes over with little handmade gifts; Jenna and her daughter bring homemade cookies for a tea party on the monogrammed set sent by Johanna. Tracy and Rose hide toys in their purses for Ilaria to find, and help her knead Sculpey into cows who live in Popsicle-stick barns; Dave has funny grown-up “talks” with her. Renee and Brian gently teach her how to swim while she splashes Kate . . . and to make Ilaria laugh, John walks into the pool wearing all his clothes. Although they may have privately discussed my situation, none of them expected this. I shocked everyone by revealing my hidden need to be a mom by suddenly introducing Ilaria, and I am grateful for how they’ve all acclimated to this new situation.

Everyone takes pleasure in the fact there’s this new little creature around. My mom has gone back to Winnipeg and she’ll be back with my dad soon. My sisters and brother are now preparing their visits to meet their new niece. All our nieces and nephews have sent gifts and cards from where they live—Toronto, Winnipeg, and Australia. Without even planning it with one another, the kids had written heartfelt letters to their cousin welcoming her to the family. They’re all framed in Ilaria’s room—we read them to her and show her pictures of her new cousins until she can meet everyone.

Of course, Ian or I still sleep in the cot beside Ilaria’s bed. We rock her to sleep, give her as many bottles as she asks for, but she is sleeping in two-hour increments.

Our environment has become
a hectic, noisy, and fun kid house. We blow so many bubbles that the yard grass is a yellow and soggy bog. Pastel sidewalk chalk graffitis the driveway with kid gang symbols. We gingerly step around the booby trap of Playmobil pieces on every floor surface. At three
A.M.
, a tiny remote-controlled car zooms on its own through the living room. A Big Bird electric toothbrush in a drawer “whirrs” us awake at dawn. There are toys, books, and stuffed animals everywhere; it looks like a Toys “R” Us barfed into our house.

I embrace this new thing called parenthood. I’m getting wrinkles. Not from stress but because I smile so much; I have laugh lines around my eyes. There isn’t a word for the elation I feel. The weekends are unplanned and gloriously lazy because one errand now takes half the day. We live about a five-minute walk to a street of shops and cafés. Over the years, I’ve walked the few blocks thousands of times. But with Ilaria it takes forever. There isn’t a “there” in a kid’s day. She stops to inspect every tree trunk, every flower, every rock. Now in my sleep-deprived-bordering-on-hallucinating haze, I notice that vine twisted around that tree trunk actually looks sort of enchanted. I perceive my neighborhood completely anew, as if fairies are fluttering around, sprinkling glitter. I see blue shutters and clay roofs and red doors and neighbors I had never noticed. When Ilaria picks a beautiful purple flower and gently holds it out to me, I realize I have never been precisely still before, completely present, not wanting a moment to ever pass.

While I once spent my evenings perusing the adoption sites, I’m now on the computer buying out Pottery Barn and Crate and Barrel as if I’m goading our business manager to call and scream, “Leave some for other parents!” The pretty white furniture arrives and we all decorate Ilaria’s new bedroom—it’s like a remake of
Yours, Mine And Ours
to messily stick flower decals on the walls while laying out that furniture on top of a new pink rug, as Manny lies on and licks everything.

I am delighted by Ilaria: every facial expression, every tantrum, every small thing she does is fascinating and fantastic. Mornings are now a flurry of juice spilling, tiny clothes washing, and frenzied kid-chasing. It is thrilling to not know what’s going to happen next. Even though she’s still not speaking yet, Ilaria is happy and relaxing more and more. She’s not frustrated and on guard as much, and her tears have been replaced with the sweetest of smiles and a hilariously gurgling laugh. She seems to have begun to accept this is her home and we’re her parents. She gets it all. Sometimes we just look at each other and laugh for no reason.

She sits in my lap as we watch YouTube videos of kitties playing. Now, being from Canada, the image of even a nun slip-sliding across ice slays me. So I gladly click on the many compilations of
America’s Funniest Home Videos
of people falling. Ilaria and I laugh so hard at old people bouncing and falling off trampolines, I’m not sure who is the parent.

She now does many things to see if she can make us laugh. When I turn away to get a napkin, she puts ten straws in her mouth and waits patiently for me to turn back and laugh. She eats a bag of animal crackers, then holds the bag out to me, in the “want one?” gesture. When I reach into the bag and discover it empty, she breaks into peals of laughter.

Ian notices she is not giggly about it. It’s more like she’s sly and ironic, wryly trying to outsmart us. Sure, I’m describing typical kid behavior, but I mention it because Ian and I laugh a lot, and our house is loud and fun. Ilaria is adapting to her environment.

I’ll be honest here. As I described earlier, because things went wrong for us so often on this path to parenthood, I’m still holding my breath. Obviously, I’m having fun, I’m enjoying myself, but often an uneasy feeling washes over me. I tell myself it’s probably the lack of sleep.

I stare at Ilaria. I love her so much. I need this placement to be finalized.

One evening we attend
a casual Greek fundraising picnic event hosted by our church.

Our priest, Father John, meets Ilaria, promptly understands the situation, and does not ask questions. He only kindly asks if he can bless her. I explain I’m nervous because her adoption isn’t finalized. He gives me a wise nod and tells me then he should definitely bless her.

So that Sunday we head to church. Our daughter silently takes in the chanting and the smell of incense as the sun shines through the stained-glass windows. It can be daunting, but she finds it alluring.

After the service, the congregation leaves and Father John subtly gestures for us to join him at the front of the church for the additional ceremony. As we get to the altar, Father John opens a book and begins to read. But this isn’t a standard blessing I’m hearing. This is new to me. It is a special prayer for . . . adoption.

The words and ceremony are a beautiful acknowledgment that some families are created in different ways but are still, in every way, a family.

The priest now says these words, “Today you have given birth to your daughter,” and, yep, here it comes . . . the ethnic gush. But this blubber session is quickly followed by a quiet gratefulness.

I hold my daughter in my arms and thank God for bringing her to me. If the standard route of creating a family had worked for me, I wouldn’t have met this child. I needed to know her. I needed to be her mother. I know now why all those events happened. Or didn’t happen. So I could meet this little girl. She is, in every way, my daughter. I am carrying my Funny Gift from God and all is good.

I am curious as to why we humans seem to need these rituals to get things into our skulls. There isn’t just one reason we want these rites. Perhaps it’s essential we witness, or we require catharsis to process information and emotions.

Ah, maybe that’s what the baby shower is—part of the mental preparation for the expectant mother. Although I find the opening of tiny onesies followed by a group “awwww” so irritating, and am not comfortable watching grown women dance with a hat of gift bows unless vacation tequila is involved, I now perceive that the ritual is part of how we process life’s milestones. Okay, okay I get it now.

I thank Father John for the ceremony and we head down the aisle. And I realize while I have walked into the church many times . . . on this day, it is the first time I am walking out as a mother.

• 13 •

Waiting to Be Finalized

“Gloria?”

“Ilaria,” I say.

“Lara?”

“Ah-LAHR-ee-ah,” I say, aware that I am speaking loudly.

The grocery store clerk smiles down on my daughter, sitting in the cart, looking up at him.

“Spell it?” he asks.

Ah, jeez. I have saddled my daughter with a tough name. I myself loathed my odd name growing up. I wished I was a Jane or a Heather. On top of it, no one correctly spelled or remembered my name. Even now, the most ardent admirer has trouble with it. They’ll run up with pure love in their eyes, screaming “big fat Greek girl” or “Come here, fat wife!” or if they like
My Life In Ruins,
it’s “Poopi-kisser!!”

They hug me, quote lines from my movies, then say, “What’s your name?”

I answer, “Nia.” And they squeal, “Yes, Nina!”

Now I see my daughter watching the clerk but her expression is puzzled, as if “Ilaria” is the most common name in the world. Somehow, I know this kid will not see her name as a burden. She doesn’t lack confidence.

Grocery shopping today is one of the few times I’ve ventured out with her beyond our neighborhood. Yes, I’m still edgy about the placement being permanent. The way it works with North American foster care is the child is placed in the home for a six-month period before the paperwork is finalized. Even if the child is legally emancipated, this juncture during transition and social worker visits is still called fostering. Thus the confusing name fos-adopt. Typically, initially there are more parent-child visits, then a trial sleepover or two before a child is placed in a home—but every case is unique. All indications have shown our placement is permanent, but I still worry something will go wrong.

We load the groceries into the car and as I click Ilaria into her booster seat, I get a call from my publicist Heidi Schaeffer: somehow a member of the press has found out about Ilaria. I try to keep my face calm for Ilaria, but my insides screech like a howler monkey and cave in. Heidi tells me Marc Malkin of
E!
News called her and while he doesn’t have the details correct, he does know a lot and wants confirmation. I keep my face composed and reach back to hand Ilaria a sticker book as Heidi tells me she leveled with him. She told Marc if he goes public with the story, he could ruin the permanency of the placement. Heidi is also my friend and a mother and knows what had happened with other adoption panels feeling we possibly couldn’t provide privacy to a child from foster care. She asked Marc to please not run with the story out of the goodness of his heart. And . . . he agreed. Heidi tells me Marc saw the humanity at stake and did the right thing.

I exhale, hang up, and look back at Ilaria as I start the car. She’s happily ripping apart the sticker book . . . I want this adoption to be finalized. And soon.

Later that day, the social workers come over to our house for an official visit. They walk around and check things, such as making sure any medications are in a lockbox and that all second-floor rooms have a rope fire ladder. We don’t see any of it as an intrusion. I don’t feel like they’re spying or judging us. I feel they’re there to help. They do.

They assess how we’re doing and answer our questions about the process of finalizing our adoption. I gasp as they give us our court date. It’s still months away. By law we have to wait six months from the day Ilaria was placed with us to finalize us as her parents. The judge will require six months’ proof of social worker visitations and placement evaluations. It seems like an awful law and a long time to wait and I am having terrible nightmares some unknown birth relative will come forward and Ilaria will be taken from us. I find myself waking up in the middle of the night to reach out and make sure she’s still here—like she does to me.

Just last night, I woke up and discovered her already awake, looking at me. In the dark, we both smiled. She tentatively reached out and put her fingers on my cheek. I did the same and stroked her face until she fell asleep. It seems strange to me now that we’d asked our social workers to only match us with a legally emancipated child. It’s because we simply weren’t seeking trouble then. But now there’s no way I’m giving up Ilaria. If a catastrophe occurs, Ian and I will fight for this child.

However, I’m not taking any chances. We don’t go beyond our neighborhood because we live in Los Angeles, and there’s a scourge in my industry: paparazzi. I’m not talking about photographers. There’s a vast difference between legitimate members of the press corps and paparazzi. Sure, some paparazzi are passable individuals who merely want a celebrity picture to sell to magazines. I understand that trade-off of my industry; in a way we’re all krill. But it’s terrifying when that other kind of paparazzi jumps out at you at the park—these scum want that sellable shocked, angry expression. I don’t want Ilaria to get scared, plus I don’t want a picture of her in some tabloid. Not only do I want to keep her safe, I don’t want anything to jeopardize her placement with us.

So I tell the social workers everything I’m concerned about in terms of Ilaria being taken. Once again, they listen with such respect, such kindness. They assure me that once she was placed with us, we needn’t worry. She is legally emancipated. They soothe my fears about a birth family member coming forward and claiming DNA rights. They explain that all the paperwork is done and fully vetted to confirm a child is legally freed. This was all done before Ilaria was placed with us, and now even if an unknown relative shows up, the law is on our side. I don’t want to fight anyone in court, but as I said, I would. Actually, I’ve decided I’ll just take her and move to Switzerland.

As I’ve explained, there are 129,000 kids who are legally emancipated and living in foster care, waiting to be matched with parents to adopt them. There are also 350,000 kids living in foster care whose parental rights have not been terminated. These kids live in foster care or group homes as they wait for their birth parents to get it together and for a judge to grant the parents the right to get their kids back. These kids are also hoping to be fostered in a loving home, and if their birth parents’ rights are terminated, they can be adopted into a “forever family.” I marvel at the people who choose to foster and wait through a legal process to adopt that child. If you’re thinking of the ones who do it for money and are mean to kids, those are the rare individuals and, of course, the ones the media has told you about. I’m talking about the people I’ve met. There is a whole world of foster parents and social workers who run group homes who just want to do good. They just want to give kids a good life. And they do. When I was checking the adoption sites, I saw images that stay with me. I saw some kids with Down syndrome or cystic fibrosis or who were severely handicapped and in wheelchairs. Months later, on their profiles it would say, in large letters—ADOPTED.

Many people adopt this way via foster care; first they foster and then they get to adopt that child after the parental rights are terminated. There is an event once a year that is truly staggering to witness. It’s called National Adoption Day. On this one day, in every state a courthouse is donated and lawyers and judges work for free—you heard me, for free—to finalize adoptions. Adopting via foster care is free. The children’s medical and dental expenses are covered until adulthood. I didn’t know about any of this. When Ilaria was placed with us, because she’d been relinquished to foster care, she was immediately covered under our insurance. We donated her medical and dental rights back to the state.

As the social workers explain each step of the process that will happen over the next few months, inwardly I encourage myself to stop worrying. However, I will still make sure my daughter is not photographed.

Let’s be clear, Ian and I don’t really live a hip Hollywood lifestyle. It’s not like we have paparazzi following us around all day trying to get that risqué, incriminating picture. We’re not thin enough or famous enough, plus we’re boring. As far as I know, neither of us has done cocaine off a stripper’s butt on Sunset Boulevard, so paparazzi couldn’t even get a lucrative shot of us.

But lately, there have been paparazzi at our local outdoor mall. We’ve even noticed them in our neighborhood. We know two actors with a new kid is a sought-after picture.

So, since Ilaria loves being a kitty-cat, we have the solution: we face-paint her. Now, with whiskers, a black nose, pointy eyebrows, and a sun hat, she is unrecognizable. So every time we go to a public place, we have our little kitty and no one gets a clear picture of her. I keep the kitty-cat makeup in my purse in case we make an impromptu visit to a place known to have paparazzi. Luckily, like a lot of kids she enjoys having her face painted. We didn’t have to go as far as Michael Jackson did with his kids’ veils but you know what? I get that, now. I am so protective of her, I will do anything it takes. Until the adoption is finalized, we want to be cautious so a judge won’t rule our lifestyle isn’t safe for the private life of a child.

So if we see paparazzi, we make it a game. Ilaria knows only family and friends can take pictures of us and if anyone else tries, she gets to hide her face. When paparazzi do jump out at us, she doesn’t get scared because we’ve made it a contest. It’s an amusing challenge for her to play peekaboo and incredibly satisfying for us to see an annoyed paparazzo give us the finger while we feel her giggling breath on our necks.

Ian and I have always been appreciative of anyone who has seen our work and asks for a photo with us. It can be embarrassing to ask for a photo and be rebuffed. Before I was a working actor, it happened to me. I asked a famous person for a photo and was rudely rebuffed. Quite brusquely. No, I’m not telling you who it was (without a martini in me), but my cousin Nike and I will never forget the sting of embarrassment we felt. Minutes later, we met John Stamos too—far more famous and good-looking than the first guy. Nike simply held out her camera and John said, “Of course!” Sean Hayes, John Corbett, Tom Hanks, Rita Wilson, Jewel, and most actors I know are like this too. They appreciate that being courteous in public is part of the job.

As John Corbett once advised me—once you’re a known actor, there’s no day off. My theory is if I don’t want to be approached by admirers, I don’t go out. So I never rebuff people. Not even when that lady snapped my picture after my spa massage. I didn’t enjoy it, but she didn’t know it was invasive to snap a picture of me all oiled up like gyro meat in a robe and shower cap. On this topic, if I ever meet Stockard Channing again, I owe her an apology. Before I was a known actor, the two of us were alone in the changing room after a workout class. As she was changing her clothes, I realized who she was, blurted out my sincere veneration, and touched her bare leg. She was nice but as I gushed, it dawned on me I might have chosen a more opportune time to stroke her thigh.

I’ve noticed and value this about the people who like my work—they’re nice. I think they’re nicer than the people who like other actors’ work. Yeah, I said it. Because I once heard a reporter say something like this about one of my scripts and think it applies to all my films—they play best for an audience that does not hate themselves. My movies are unabashedly affectionate so the people who like them are particularly kind. And I genuinely appreciate their good-heartedness.

But now, I have a child. A daughter I want to protect, especially when we’re in public. Most people, when they see me with my daughter, just nod and grin, or yell “love your work,” which makes my head crack open in a smile so wide, I look like a Pez dispenser.

Sometimes taking photos requires a bit of creative thinking. One day at an outdoor mall, a group of fabulous gay men screamed “Connie and Carla,” my drag queen movie, and I was delighted as they came running at me, quoting the line, “Your voice is giving me mono.” They beseechingly held out their cameras. I pointed down to my daughter, indicating I couldn’t take a photo. Ilaria and I headed for the food court with the gaggle of gay men in hot pursuit. Ian was getting us ice cream and they squealed at my “bear” husband and snapped his photo. Then Ian watched Ilaria while the boys and I walked over to the fountain, took photos, hugged, and said good-bye. I loved those guys for understanding I couldn’t be a mom and a parade float at the same time. Ilaria did not ask what
Connie and Carla
was. No secrets. If she asks, I’ll tell her about my movies. But it’s very clear and important to me that to my daughter, I’m solely her mom.

But when I got back to Ian and Ilaria, the hurt expression on my daughter’s face stopped me in my tracks. I realized I’d made a mistake. She didn’t know why I left to take pictures and, actually, neither did I. She is my primary concern.

This actor/parent thing is new to me. I appreciate anyone who has ever enjoyed my work, but my biggest priority is helping my daughter feel secure and safe. After much discussion, Ian and I assured Ilaria that we will no longer take photos when we’re with her. We all call it our Family Promise. We soon see that when we explain to film and TV enthusiasts that we don’t take photos when we’re with our daughter, and that it’s a Family Promise, people get it and are sincerely understanding of our request.

So if you don’t mind, let’s make this agreement—if we meet when I’m with my daughter, you can tell me anything you like about my movies, I get to tell you you look cute in that shirt, we shake hands and move on. Deal? Thank you.