My Inappropriate Life

by Heather McDonald

  Here is the most inappropriate, odd pregnancy photo ever. My art-photographer friend, Dick Sanders, took it and he talked me into showing areola. P.S. PETA: don’t freak out—the fur is fake. (©Dick Sanders)

  I called my mom the next day and said, “I made a decision. Drake is going to be bottle fed, and I don’t want to hear any more about it. He is doing great.” My mom assured me that she didn’t care and whatever I wanted was fine. Let me add, here, that despite being the only one of five children not breastfed, I am the closest to my mother and the tallest of the three girls.

  A week later, I was at the gas station pumping my gas and on the other side of the pump was a real-estate agent from my mother’s office. She said, “How is the baby? I heard the breastfeeding wasn’t for you.” I got that a lot. Even the checker at our grocery store knew my entire breastfeeding story. Apparently, my mom was buying formula for her house and felt the need to explain. I know women get shit for whipping out a tit in public, but I got just as much, if not more, shit for whipping out a can of formula instead. Still, for our family it really worked. I would have felt so guilty if my son had gas and was in pain because I chose to eat a spicy enchilada one night. When I gave birth to my second son, Brandon, I told the nurses before he was even born that I was not breastfeeding. The first morning after I woke up in the hospital I called to the nursery to have them send me Brandon and the nurse said, “We just fed him and he’s sleeping. Do you want to rest and we’ll bring him to you when he wakes?” It was wonderful to relax with my cranberry juice, icy maxi pad, and a TV remote all to myself. Besides, this way Peter could do the five-a.m. feedings, which he did for both boys. When I look back at my marriage, those five-a.m. feedings are some of the fondest memories I have of Peter as a husband. Otherwise, it’s just a lot of Peter snoring, farting, and clearing out his throat.

  I try not to judge when women choose to breastfeed past one year. If that is what they want to do, so be it. I mean, I don’t think it should happen during a soccer game right after your son scores a goal and wants a sip off your num-nums, but if it goes to two or even three years old, I really don’t think it is anyone’s business.

  Since I wasn’t breastfeeding, I tried to make up for the “bonding” that I was told I was missing out on in other ways, like enlisting a baby masseuse. I saw a flyer that read “Give your infant the ultimate gift of relaxation and bonding with a baby masseuse expert.” Perfect, I thought. I love massages, and the flyer said it would help the baby sleep and with digestion, which the Le Leche League claimed my baby might struggle with without my sacred breast milk. I called the woman whose number was listed on the flyer and when she answered she spoke so softly to me on the phone, I could barely hear her. She spoke like the Duggar mother on TLC’s 19 Kids and Counting. Michelle Duggar is so softspoken and so slow in her speech, it is astounding that she has nineteen kids. But maybe that is because she never really has to scold them, because each older child is assigned to raise a younger child. No wonder the parents still have time to bone and get pregnant. Essentially, she has ten nannies working for her. I tried to explain to Peter that the baby masseuse was coming over. To keep the peace, I lied and said the first consultation was free. It actually cost fifty dollars a session, which is not terrible. A massage for a regular-size adult would be twice that amount.

  The baby masseuse, Lawson, arrived that afternoon wearing all pastels, with a tie-dye sarong wrapped around her flowing pants, which is not the most flattering look because it’s just a lot of extra material. But she wasn’t a model, she was a baby masseuse. We went into my family room and she told me to lay Drake down on a blanket facing me while she did the same with a baby doll she brought. Then she said, “Now, before you touch your son you need to respect him and you do that by always asking ‘May I touch you?’ ” First of all, this was already the worst massage because Lawson had no intention of even touching my baby. But I did as I was told and softly asked, “May I touch you?” Since Drake was just a few months old, he just stared at me, confused. I began to touch him anyway and followed Lawson’s instruction as she showed me where to rub him on her doll. Peter came home and just gave me his classic “Are you fucking kidding me?” look. I introduced him to the baby masseuse and she whispered back, “Nice to meet you, but we’re in session and the client still has twenty minutes left.”

  I asked Lawson how she got involved in baby massage and she explained it was just one among many of her successful business ventures, including making her own potpourri and studying to be a hypnotist. Drake really didn’t seem that into it as I was rubbing him. I began to worry he might not leave a decent tip, so I cut the session short and told Lawson I’d be in touch when Drake had a stressful day and really needed a Swedish deep-tissue combo. I can understand getting a massage for your dog, but getting one for your infant seems a little extravagant, even for L.A.

  Once when I was out with Drake, in an elevator an older woman looked down at him in the stroller with his little fat cheeks and said, “Now that is a breastfed baby if I’ve ever seen one.” I responded, “Yes, he is! My nipples are chapped and bleeding and my breasts are misshapen but it’s all worth it for my baby. Thanks for noticing what good health he is in.” I’ll admit that once at an outdoor café I covered myself with a receiving blanket and fed Drake with a bottle under it so it would appear like I was breastfeeding to avoid being judged by the other mothers whose babies were under their shirts. Hey, it is no secret that breastfeeding screws up your tits. I have a few friends who breastfed and now would really like their breasts done. One girlfriend in particular is so miserable in her marriage that if she got a boob job, she’d be one nipple out the door.

  Regarding the chatter about how a breastfed baby has a stronger immune system, I’d say you haven’t met Drake. Drake is nine, and to this day he has never had a fever, or an earache, or been on antibiotics. I know, I find it weird too. Especially one night, when I was channel surfing and came across the classic 1976 horror movie The Omen, where a wealthy couple starts to believe their five-year-old son might be the antichrist. At one point the mother says, “Don’t you find it strange that Damien has never been sick, never even had a fever?” Oh my God, I thought, nearly sputtering out my mouthful of wine, could Drake be the antichrist? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t comb his scalp and search for the numbers 666 written on his skull. However, I’m happy to report I have yet to find those numerals, or any tiny white eggs. Although, that is mostly because my husband doesn’t wash their hair very often and lice are only attracted to clean hair. It’s one positive way for me to look at Peter’s parenting skills and the kids’ lack of hygiene. I dispensed this theory when I had to defend Drake against one mother who was trying to pin my son as Patient Zero for the great lice outbreak of 2008.

  8

  GOOD HELP IS HARD TO FIND

  When I would take Drake as a baby to the park, all the other kids had their Spanish nannies and they would all ask for agua and Drake would just ask for water. He seemed so much less sophisticated. So with Brandon I was feeling pretty good about myself for hiring a Spanish speaking nanny. I thought Brandon could grow up bilingual. Juanita worked for us a couple of days a week, taking care of Brandon and cleaning the house. In the beginning the house was spotless and she would even cook for us. When I started working for Chelsea Lately full-time, we hired her to work five days a week. Juanita was great. She always had a smile on her face, despite the fact that the baby daddy of her three children left her for her older sister. Her life was like a Telemundo soap opera.

  About a year in, things started to change a little with Juanita’s attitude. She wasn’t supposed to drive the kids around, but she started to do her personal errands during the workday with our children in tow. I found out because Drake told me how much he loved the 99-cent store, and we had never been there before. He also kept asking for Taco Bell. Her housework was becoming more and more lax. And she started putting my clothes in Mackenzie’s closet. When I brought it up to her,
she said, “Oh, Miss Heather, it was so little I thought it was for a young girl, not a mother of three. Sorry.” I thought it was a pretty passive-aggressive move on her part. What’s so wrong with a married mother in her late thirties wearing a cropped top?

  One afternoon, I came home early only to discover that she had thrown a fiesta in our backyard with all the other Mexican nannies and the kids they watched. They were all enjoying the Slip ’N Slide, and Los Lobos’ music was playing on the outdoor speakers so loudly that all the neighbors thought that a construction crew was building an addition onto our house.

  After that incident, I told her I didn’t want her driving the kids around and that she couldn’t have other nannies and their children over because it was a liability if we weren’t there.

  Things got even more unsettling when I bought my dad a hundred-dollar gift card at Target for his birthday. When I went to find it, I couldn’t locate it in my desk drawer. I scoured the house and I told myself, once again, Heather, you are so disorganized. Now you’ve actually lost something of value. In the back of my mind, I prayed, Oh, God, please do not tell me that Juanita stole it.

  A week later, Peter and I were going out to dinner and Juanita was watching the kids. I had left a wallet with a hundred-dollar bill in my drawer. The next morning on my way to work, I went to pay for my Starbucks coffee and noticed that the hundred was gone. Shit, I thought, now I don’t have cash for the Chinese chicken salad at the food truck. But more important, I had my confirmation that Juanita had taken the money and the cash card. I told Peter about the two missing items, and he said, “All right, but I’m not a hundred percent convinced, because you lose stuff all of the time.” He was intrigued enough to buy some little spy cameras, which we set up in his office, where the cash is kept.

  At that point, I was scared of her getting caught and us having to fire her, because I didn’t want to find a new person. Wasn’t there some sort of nanny rehabilitation program out there? I called my lawyer sister, Shannon, and asked her whether she thought it was wise that I tell Juanita about Peter’s sting operation. She said, “Heather, that would be an obstruction of justice.” Hmm, I thought. That sounded serious, coming from my sister, so I kept my lips sealed.

  That Monday, the cameras were rolling and Peter and I left Juanita at 8:30 a.m. and I went off to work. At 4:35 that afternoon, Peter called me from the house and he said, “Oh my God, I’m shaking, I am shaking right now. I can’t believe what I just saw. Juanita just left, so I checked the videos from the security cameras and at 8:41 a.m. it shows Juanita walking into my office while talking on the cell phone. She went straight to the money drawer, lifted up the notepads that cover it, counted out the $720 in cash that was there and took $260 of it and shoved the rest back under the notepad. I’m so surprised. I never said this to you, but there were times over the last six months when I thought I had more cash in the drawer. You’re going to die when you see the video.”

  As I was driving home, I started to reflect on my relationship with Juanita. She had gotten acrylic French-tipped nails that she was able to keep up with weekly manicure visits, which I thought was strange considering she was supposed to be scrubbing toilets, doing dishes, and changing diapers. She had also had professional tooth bleaching done and gotten hair extensions. She was becoming the Sofia Vergara of maids.

  I arrived home and went straight to Peter’s home office. When Peter showed me the surveillance video that confirmed Juanita was stealing, I felt like I was with Chris Hansen on Dateline: “To Catch a Domestic Thief” episode. Her casualness really struck me and I became upset to think how she not only looked after the boys but that she was part of our family. I’d never had someone betray me like this. I had never even had a boyfriend cheat on me, so this was heartbreaking.

  I couldn’t fire her, as I knew she would cry and tell me how her children now call her sister, Mommy, instead of Aunt, since her sister was the one sleeping with her baby daddy. I simply couldn’t deal with the drama, so I asked Peter to do it. When Juanita came to work the next day he said to her cheerfully, “Oh, come here, I want to show you something on my computer.”

  As she watched, Juanita started to cry and said, “No, no, Mr. Peter, I was just borrowing the money. I was going to return it on my payday.” She was acting just like the guys on “To Catch a Predator” when confronted by Chris and his camera crew presenting a predator with the e-mails he wrote a thirteen-year-old virgin: “Oh, I never planned on sleeping with her. She e-mailed me that she was hungry so I just wanted to bring the Happy Meal over to her. The Mike’s Hard Lemonade is just for me. And the condoms, um, well, those are for us to make water balloons because she wrote me that she wanted to have a pool party.” Unlike Dateline, we didn’t call the cops, so they didn’t come out of the bushes and tackle Juanita on our front lawn. We went about it in a more dignified manner. Peter just told her that she had to leave. She asked if she could call me, probably to beg for her job knowing I’m a sap, but Peter said no.

  The next night, we went out to dinner for Liz’s birthday. At the dinner Kris Jenner and Kourtney Kardashian were seated next to me. I told them, “I just had the most horrible thing happen with my nanny.” Kris immediately asked while smiling, “Oh, did you find out she had been stealing from you?” I was surprised by how quickly she guessed it. I filled them in on more of the story and Kourtney said, “Oh my gosh, Mom, you were so oblivious that Margarita was stealing from us, but you wouldn’t fire her because you didn’t want to be without help.” Kourtney went on to say, “When my brother, Robert, was ten, all his clothes kept going missing. And then, Mom, you would just let him spend the night at Margarita’s house in downtown L.A.” Kris chimed in, “Well, Margarita had two sons right around Robert’s age.” Kourtney said, “Right, and when he returned he said, ‘Mom, José and Manny have all the same clothes that I have. You know, the ones I can’t find anymore, like the khakis and the alligator shirts.” Kris said, “Well, she was so good with Kendall and Kylie, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. But then one day, I bought a big box of Equal sweetener from Costco, and the next day, I found a bag filled with the Equal packets in my bushes. So I put two and two together and realized she forgot to put the bag of Equal in her car. She would take half of my Costco purchases so I wouldn’t ever notice. Oh, was I fooled. But that was the final straw, the Equals, and I held up the bag and asked adamantly, ‘Are you forgetting something, Margarita? I didn’t know you loved artificial sweetener so much?’ ”

  A year later, my sister Shannon was bragging about the amazing maid she had and how she would clean her house at the speed of light and organize all her closets. Shannon couldn’t believe how much extra space she had in her dresser drawers. Imagine Shannon’s shock when her neighbor told her she was at the local swap meet and saw Shannon’s maid, Carlita, working a booth selling name-brand children’s and women’s clothing and that upon further inspection she discovered Shannon’s son Matthew’s name was written on several of the tags inside the shirts. Shannon, like me, wussed out, and told her maid she was putting her children in full-time day care, instead of firing her. She later discovered Carlita was arrested for selling and using speed. No wonder she was able to clean Shannon’s house so fast.

  When the news broke about our former California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger’s love child whom he fathered with his and Maria Shriver’s housekeeper of almost twenty years, I empathized so much with Maria. I had never felt more deceived than when Juanita stole money from us. Imagine if she had stolen my husband’s sperm and given birth to his child, and we had to pay child support. Juanita only got some new nails and shining teeth out of me, but poor Maria landed a stepson.

  But you know Maria. She is such a positive person, I’m confident she can make something good of this. She has written bestselling children’s books titled What’s Heaven? and What’s Happening to Grandpa? so now she can write, What’s the Reason Our Maid’s Son Looks Like Our Dad?

  I know this story is th
e epitome of “White Girl Problems.” So you’ll be happy to know I’m starting a grassroots charity called “Vans of Love,” where vans could provide transportation for domestics from the Boulevard bus stop to their home of employment for middle-class L.A. families who cannot afford to have live-in help. I think it would be perfect for when I’m working for Donald Trump on The Celebrity Apprentice and need a designated charity. Donald of all people would be sensitive to the needs of those Americans whose homes don’t come equipped with maid’s quarters.

  9

  THEY TRIED TO MAKE ME GO TO REHAB

  I was opening for Chelsea a few years ago at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. I decided to bring the boys, since Vegas is so close and I never get to bring the kids on the road. We arrived on Saturday, and I did my act that night. The next morning I encouraged Peter to go golfing with his brother, who lived in Las Vegas, while I enjoyed a day at the pool with the boys. From the moment we arrived, the boys had been eyeing the huge pool and waterslide that they could see from our room. At eleven a.m. we headed to the pool area, and I was surprised to see all the security involved for just taking a dip in the pool. They checked our bags and my sons’ sippy cups to make sure it was apple juice and not alcohol. A nice security guard advised me to perhaps leave by two. I thought, Isn’t that sweet, he’s worried about my boys getting too much sun.