Instant Mom (17 page)

Ian helps, Rita and George pitch in, the priest dunks her some more, and she never stops screaming.

Suddenly it’s over, so Rita and I quickly take her away to change her into a new outfit. Rita’s experience as a mother shows as she is tender and gentle with Ilaria and eventually even gets her to laugh. In her pretty white dress, my small daughter looks as disheveled and vulnerable as if she’s just been through a prom-night parking-lot rumble. But she smiles back at Rita and even gives her a small kiss on the cheek.

As we’re driving home Ilaria says to Ian and me, “I’m really mad at you.”

I say, “I know.”

Sitting beside her in the backseat, I take her hand and squeeze it. I am not sure I did the right thing. I wonder if this is what being a grown-up is supposed to feel like? Are we supposed to do things like this to our kid?

Ilaria declares, “I don’t like it there.”

Now I should spout off about how great church is, how it will always be a place she belongs. But I don’t. I just touch her face and say, “You don’t have to go back there again until you get married.” So I guess I’m not really a grown-up.

For the record, she goes back a lot. Because a few months later, she starts Greek school at the community center. Okay fine . . . some parts of
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
are a documentary after all.

So besides chomping on a lamb shank, Ilaria is fully Greek. She speaks the language and is learning to write it. But I see today at church as we head to get Communion from Father John, we have to pass by that big baptismal font. Ilaria walks a wiiiiiide circle around and away from it.

She has not gone near it since.

• 20 •

Where’s the Off Switch?

You work. I work
. Whether your job is full-time mom or corporate CEO, raise your hand if you’ve accidentally napped in the sweater department at Walmart.

As I try to parallel park with one hand, while cursing that unnecessarily tight shrink-wrap I can’t peel off the juice box three-pack, I wonder how my mom did it all. I am so sleep deprived my chin skin hangs into my neck like I’m perpetually texting. But I’m not.

I check myself in the rearview mirror. . . . Well, I do look happy. Like a happy, gaunt hag.

It’s been well over a year of motherhood in which I have spent every waking moment with Ilaria in between fulfilling those work commitments I’d made before I became a mom. I directed and acted in a film I wrote, turned in a new script, and premiered two films. I don’t feel superhuman. I’ve seen the same bedraggled expression on the faces of many women, from Gap cashiers to hairstylists to moms who work full-time being moms—if you’re a mom, you just get it all done.

Without a smidgen of contrition, I’m going to say this out loud: barring a few exceptions, the planning, and by this I mean, the household upkeep, playdates, lunch making, school volunteering, and general socialization of a child, is still primarily considered mom territory. Sure, I’ve seen some dads with day planners in hand too; they’re marvelous, but they’re rare.

I can walk Ilaria into preschool every day for six weeks in a row, and nobody blinks. But if Ian does it one day, the other moms and teachers make such a big deal of it. I’ll hear them all dreamily coo about it for weeks: “Saw Ian last week. He’s so good with kids.” I want to say to the moms, “Um, you mean like you and I are every day?” Plus isn’t it a little demeaning to men to applaud them for simple human behavior? Most of the dads I know, even if they’re not doing the planning, are present and hands-on. Then again, one dad at preschool said his wife had attended a parenting class the night before so he’d “stayed home and babysat.” I didn’t say, “You mean parented?”

Luckily, my own husband is not a slacker. And I’m not just saying that because he’ll read this book. He won’t. He’s still working on
Seabiscuit
. The truth is, Ian has risen to the tasks of parenthood. Another truth is, all babies love Ian—probably because he looks like one. Subsequently, he and Ilaria got along right away and Ian jumped into the dad thing.

Ian changed diapers too, dutifully sleeps on that cot, and hauls kid stuff to the park. By the way, no one told us there’d be so much stuff. Just to get out the door with a kid means extra underwear, a change of clothes, a cooler of milk and snacks and juice, plus a blanket to sit on in the park and some activity like a coloring book and crayons. An archetypal guy, Ian used to walk out the door with only his wallet, phone, and keys. And in the classic guy move, he would come right back because he’d forgotten one of these items. Now he has a huge knapsack that is just Ilaria’s stuff. We made sure to purchase a very au courant Kenneth Cole shoulder bag for our kid stuff because for years we’d felt sorry for those sad-sack parents carrying a urine-yellow diaper bag with duckies on it. The haunted look in their eyes, as if their sexuality was dripping out of them with every plodding step, made us shudder with fear.

We were so determined to remain young and virile when we became parents. But now we mutter “I gotta get to the gym” as we doze off, only to wake up with our necks cricked at those algebraic angles. Our zombie exoskeletons are gray and flaky from surely the sleep-deprived malnutrition of rickets. We need counseling for our Goldfish cracker addiction. Breakfast has been replaced with apple juice from foil bags we’ve switched to even though it always geysers up through that teeny straw hole, so in the car our legs stick to our forearms. I know the cereal dust at the bottom of a box is not a real dinner for me. We’re lucky we have Anna to babysit . . . but we can’t go out because we’re so tired we’d face-plant into the entrée.

But really (tight smile masking trauma), it’s going so much better!!! (I insert many exclamation points to keep myself awake as I write.) We tell ourselves Ilaria’s sparkling self-assured personality is the reward for the loss of our vim and vigor.

Today, I’m driving her
to preschool and have to blink several times to stay awake. Not good. I acknowledge I’m in a state of unremitting brain fog.

The sleeping a few hours at a time has completely thrown my own rhythms off. Sure, Ilaria is sleeping through the night—the cot is completely down the hall, which means when I walk out of the bathroom I get to trip and hydroplane across it. But now it’s me who is hyper-diligent at night, watching over Ilaria, not wanting to leave her alone. Any sound in the house makes me bolt awake or instinctively reach for the bottles she’s long given up.

I’m waking up more tired than I went to bed. I’m sure all parents would agree with this feeling: I haven’t been in REM since I became a mom.

Even if I could, I don’t want to sleep in. I like to take her to preschool. I put my convertible top down, blare a song on Sirius Kids Place Live, and Ilaria throws her hands in the air and squeals “Rock and Roll!” as we peel out the driveway.

I could nap when Ilaria is at preschool, but I learn so much when I stay there. Plus, we’d ascertained from the sleep therapist that napping doesn’t add up to a good night’s sleep. If I make some lifestyle changes so that I get more rest, does this mean I won’t be able to be with Ilaria as much? The guilt of this realization is really hard for me. Ian and I consider ourselves fortunate that we’re both employed. But we don’t have any family living in Los Angeles to help out.  . . .

By the time we pull up to preschool, I accept I can’t be here all day anymore. I have new work commitments that are gnawing at my psyche, and I’m exhausted. I’ve got to be disciplined and get some sleep, plus find time to exercise and get my energy back. My mom and siblings tell me: you can’t take care of your kid unless you take care of yourself.

So tonight I go to bed at nine
P.M.
. . . but I can’t turn off my brain. I lie here until three
A.M.
, thinking of all the things I have to get done. I wake up at six
A.M.
feeling crummy again.

Therefore, I do what my mom always did: I make a list. I itemize all the things that are plaguing my subconscious and scribble across the top—

How to Sleep

Exercise Sucks:
But I have to do it. I set the TiVo in front of the treadmill to record programs other than
Scooby-Doo
so I can watch adult content like
Mad Men
(and, yes, I do pretend I’m walking toward John Slattery as he’s handing me a martini). For other days, I find a morning dance class that begins right after my daughter’s school drop-off time, so eighty minutes later I can be showered and at my desk writing.

Kid Kryptonite:
A recipe in the
Sneaky Chef
cookbook is an ingenious mélange of pureed spinach, broccoli, peas, and a bit of lemon juice to remove that tinny spinach-sweater off your tongue. One cup can be mixed with a bit of ketchup or tomato sauce—it goes brown, thus hiding the gross green, then added to ground turkey burgers for more than the daily recommended serving of vegetables. To save time, I make a silo of it to be frozen in one-cup portioned Ziploc bags for quick mixing into pasta sauces or meatballs. (As I type this, I’m imagining myself making it with Rachel Ray—we’re wearing matching outfits.) In a trembling voice, I tell Ian he must hide the Goldfish crackers from me. I slice some chicken and eat the concoction as soup. Within days, my eyes look bright, I’m standing taller . . . forgive my forthcoming admission, but that potion is truly nature’s broom.

Pain In The Neck:
An osteopath assesses the damage to my shoulder and neck muscles from the constant rocking plus cot-sleeping. In a few sessions it feels like she oiled the sockets in my neck and I think I am seeing my own aura until I remember I actually do have peripheral vision.

Modern Gift Horse:
Nobody told me there’d be so many birthday parties and that at least once a weekend I’d have to yell, “Drop the cupcake, Cupcake, we’ve got to get home and walk Manny!” Just taking Ilaria to a toy store to get a birthday gift takes hours with parking, plus walking through multiple aisles of choices, and like every kid she has to touch every single toy in there. On Amazon.com, I order twenty-five age-appropriate gifts. (With Prime, it’s free delivery! You’re welcome for the free ad, Amazon. Please send me a purse.) A gi-normous box of gifts arrives and I shove it deep into a closet. Before a party, Ilaria goes “shopping” in there and it only takes five minutes.

The Complexities of Complexion:
I throw out all my dried-up face creams and go back to my previous much easier regimen of inexpensive Dove soap, plus La Mer cream that costs more than a Prius. But I tell myself to spend the money on the moisturizer because it works, and within a few days I feel my skin slough and soften. The beauty of European skin is that even our grandmothers don’t have wrinkles. The downside is I still get pimples. Plus, I sometimes need to see a dermatologist for blocked oil glands that look like speed bumps. I never know when they’re going to erupt and appointments are two months away. So I schedule twelve dermatologist appointments to have one on standby every month, and if my skin isn’t acting up, I can cancel twenty-four hours before and not be charged. Derm appointments are such a commodity in Los Angeles, I could sell mine on eBay.

Stubborn Stubble:
For many of us ladies, daily grooming takes a lot of time. The days of my luxuriously long showers are over, and there’s no time to run a razor over any part of me. Therefore, I resume the laser treatments I’d started on my legs years ago and slowly achieve my goal of becoming a hairless cat.

The “No” Word:
I begin to limit my fundraising events to topics like adoption, poverty, and the elderly. I duck and ask my agent to explain to the angry groups who don’t understand why I’ve declined hosting the opening of their artifacts museum in a country nineteen hours away, that there are only fifty-two weekends a year. And that I’m a mom now.

Tote That Purse:
Nothing, except my daughter and dog, makes me more chipper than a new purse. So for my new organizing project, of course I need a special purse. I purposefully stride into the department store, avoid the sparkly evening clutches that seemingly call my name, and instead steer myself toward the satchels and totes. I find a big one with a zippered-off section just for Ilaria’s stuff—the antibacterial wipes, Band-Aids, toys, activity books, crayons, and snacks go in one crumb-filled sector. So in a big-shot meeting, I can pull out my script notes and know there won’t be Tinkerbell stickers all over the pages (unless I stuck them on there myself . . . because they really are pretty).

Clutter Is A Dirty Word:
I grab every form of cleaning supply (insert Windex joke here) and attack the gummy surfaces of my home. Opening doors and airing out the musty rugs, curtains, and pillows, I now attack the viscous floors. After I clean my house, sure, like leaving the dental hygienist’s chair, it feels great and I vow to keep it that way. Our new and wonderful housekeeper, Carmen, comes over, tames the laundry, and helps keep the grunge sponged. But a few days later, that layer of chaos is back. I see why now: every room is a kid room; there’s child paraphernalia everywhere. I go a step farther: in the living room, I take apart the entire Playmobil safari and hospital structures plus gather all the diminutive occupants. I put
all
the toys in
one
playroom. It’s as if I’m reclaiming the house as adult territory. Or at least shared space. When I finally get all the toys, books, CDs, and DVDs put away and actually see my couch upholstery again, it is a moment of sweet grown-up victory.

I will myself to make the time to exercise, cook, write, plus still be with my daughter a few days at her preschool. As I cross items off my list, I am now sleeping about five hours at a time. My goal is a solid eight.

Sometimes my agent calls to tell me there’s an acting job . . . for tax and budgetary reasons many productions shoot outside of Los Angeles. But when I read the scripts, they’re not life-changing roles. I hear myself turning the acting jobs down. I’m also asked to go into new businesses and endorse My Big Fat Greek product spin-offs, from wine to cookbooks to restaurants. For the record, no matter what that diner owner tells you about me being a silent partner, I am not in any way affiliated or involved in any of these My Big Fat Greek products. The brand has never been licensed out. Anyway, I keep saying no to everything. As much as I hate writing because it is such a solitary pursuit, at least I can do it on my own time. If something truly cool happens, like I get offered a bad-ass cop role in an esteemed director’s film, I wonder if I’d bring Ilaria with me for that film shoot. Would she adapt to New York’s lifestyle if I fulfill a lifelong goal of doing a Broadway musical for a year or two? I wonder if it is prudent or reckless to bring my young daughter along on my adventures.

Do I miss being on camera? Yes. But more than I’d miss seeing my daughter clear another hurdle, reach another milestone? No. Ilaria is really responding to routine, truly flourishing from the schedule we’ve now established. So I decide unless the job is in Los Angeles, it’s best to stay near her for the time being. But before you applaud me for being altruistic supermom . . . again it’s not like Scorsese called.

I know I need to stick to a sleep schedule to truly change my body’s rhythms. If I was organized before out of an unbridled enjoyment of efficiency, I am methodic encroaching on psychotic now as I diligently and proudly cross items off my list. The more clearheaded and focused I feel, the more I get done. I wish I could say I pulverize Ilaria’s fruit smoothies from my own organic garden, in between scrubbing down my husband’s feet with a homemade almond and quinoa paste . . . but I’m not that mom.