Better Than New

by Nicole Curtis

  Restaurants in Gulf Shores, Alabama, serve two things: shrimp and shrimp. Thank goodness for Josh and David. Their bright-and-sunny personalities are not just made-for-TV; they’re really genuinely sweet and upbeat guys. They were the best thing about the Beach Flip experience. They were good-natured champs who allowed me the honor of being their designated driver whenever we went out to take in a little local color and a bite out of a sudden forty-degree cold front.

  The Beach Flip team (top; I’m wearing the necklace Mina made for me). Lucy, me, and my big belly (bottom).

  Although Beach Flip involved only eight weeks of filming, it was a rough eight weeks. Ethan was still in school, and he was adamant that he would not be traveling. So while everyone else involved camped out for the duration, I would shoot the show and then catch the red-eye back to Minneapolis. It was a five-hour commute each way. Even though he was seventeen with a driver’s license, just as he was opposed to coming with me, I was even more opposed to him staying on his own. By the last week of filming, I was constantly exhausted and as big as a house, and the baby was resting on my sciatic nerve. I had to drag my left leg along with me everywhere I went. I was healthy, but flying while pregnant is far from comfortable. Several times my plane was held in Atlanta due to weather. Once, the plane made it all the way to Pensacola before they decided it couldn’t land, and they flew us back to Atlanta. Even for a seasoned business traveler like me, it was a nightmare. The moment that summed up the whole experience for me started out with a quiet morning walk with Lucy. All of a sudden, she pulled out of her collar and took off like the wind, racing up a parking-garage ramp. The ramp looked like Mt. Everest to me. It took me forever to get to the top. I’m sure I made quite the lovely sight, dragging my left leg behind me like a zombie and yelling, “Luuuccccyyyy!” I knew full well that when Lucy took off, she came back when she was good and ready to come back. She could run for miles and miles. But at the top of that ramp, I think she just looked at this big, exhausted pregnant woman with the leg that didn’t work, and she had to give up. She stopped in her tracks with a look on her face that said, “I can’t do this to you, Mom. It’s just cruel.”

  You know you’re in a bad place when your scruffy rescue dog (aka Honeybadger) is taking pity on you. She calmly walked back to me, acting like I was the one who had gotten loose. I slipped her collar back on, thinking, Okay, I am so over all this. I filmed my last scene, packed up, and flew home that night.

  Fortunately, I began to see the light at the end of the tunnel. The Grand Boulevard house was turning into something special. Years earlier, my brother had led me to a fantastic Art Deco bar that I had bought for one thousand dollars, thinking I would install it in Summit. But given what had gone on with Chad, I now figured I’d never use it for the St. Paul mansion, so I installed it in Grand’s basement lounge. It was the room’s centerpiece and made the entire space look absolutely stunning.

  Everything was coming together all at once. I was nearing the end of my pregnancy and ready to meet my second child in person and shower him with love. I could see that Grand was going to be finished right under the wire—just in time for the final episode and for the charity open house that would be my biggest yet. None of it might have seemed normal-looking from the outside in. But one night, walking around Grand after the workers had left, with so much completed in the beautiful house and my belly so large, I thought, Who cares about normal? And for that matter, who is “normal”? I think people get caught up wishing they were more normal, that the dramas or challenges they go through aren’t what other people have to deal with. But that’s not the way it really is. There is no “normal.” My life isn’t normal, but neither is anyone else’s. Your life is only normal to you, and that’s important to keep in mind when you start trotting out mental measuring sticks to compare your life to some made-up idea of what normal is.

  I realized that my normal was this, being a mom—not a “single” mom, just a mom to a beautiful teenager and this baby inside of me. My new normal meant making a home in Detroit again. Fortunately, Minneapolis mayor Betsy Hodges was about to make my decision to move a whole lot easier for me.

  The whole time I was pregnant, I was still making appearances, Lucy in tow to hide my growing belly.

  Chapter 8

  Make Your Home, Friends, and Family Your Sanctuary

  indian lake road house and ransom gillis mansion

  By the time I was completing work on the Grand Boulevard house, Ethan had made the heartbreaking decision (for me, at least) to spend his senior year of high school with his dad in California. I felt like a failure. Everyone told me I shouldn’t, but I did. I was devastated. Deep down, I knew that this young man just needed a male figure more than a mommy in his life at that point, but that didn’t make the sting any less harsh. With Ethan gone, Minneapolis—the city I had come to call my own—now felt foreign. And on top of all that, I felt ostracized by the new mayor, Betsy Hodges.

  My problem with Mayor Hodges had started a year before, with the beautiful 122-year-old Orth house in Minneapolis. Despite the Minneapolis Heritage Preservation Commission’s ruling that the house was a “historic resource” and the city council’s vote to honor that ruling, a local developer and the current owner kept trying to get the house demolished to make way for a commercial development. It was just one more battle I had to fight against those who would destroy a neighborhood’s identity and cart truckloads of debris to a landfill in the name of “progress” and making a buck.

  I used Flat Ella to help kids identify with the lasting effect of demolition.

  Again, with old houses, once they’re gone, they’re gone. All the handmade craftsmanship and greatness that we can’t re-create ends up in a landfill. We were losing old houses by the dozens, and in the process, losing what made Minneapolis so unique to begin with. After all, one of the things that attracted me to the city was its beautiful architecture. As in so many other cities, everything replacing the existing architecture for the sake of “density” (i.e., more housing) was what I call “disposable buildings.” Nothing unique, nothing quality, nothing that would last a hundred years, and nothing anyone would marvel at if it did.

  The newly elected city council, led by the developer’s champion on the council, defied the previous city council’s ruling and the recommendation of the Heritage Preservation Commission. The new council wasted no time voting in favor of demolishing the Orth House. People were up in arms about the reversal. In the end, we lost—the developer brought in the bulldozers and quickly turned a glorious three-story mansion into a toxic cloud of asbestos and who knows what else, filling dumpster upon dumpster with waste to build a “green” develop­ment. The greenest homes are the ones still standing. Here’s why: Demolishing a house puts forty-four tons of material into a landfill. The site was soon cleared for its brand-new, slapped-together, no-personality, forty-four-unit apartment building.

  I posted regularly on social media about the struggle to save the Orth House. Me being me, I wasn’t going to pull any punches. In one post, I called out the councilperson supporting the developer and demolition, Lisa Bender, as someone who had said she valued neighborhoods and historic preservation, and then fought for a developer’s right to tear down a wonderful old home that had stood for more than a century. The post was shared hundreds and hundreds of times over. Of course, in the nature of social media, people commented on it, some not so nicely. Hodges—mind you, an elected public leader—used her Facebook page to condemn me and demand I apologize to her city, apparently forgetting that this “reality TV star,” as they referred to me, was really just a concerned taxpayer voicing her opinion. That would have been bad enough, but she decided to prove her point with references from a local activist/blogger who had been harassing me for months. He had even published my home address. As in, the place where I lived with my son and two dogs, awaiting the birth of my second child. Talk about feeling vulnerable. Her actions put m
y family at risk, and I could no longer ignore it. Every day, some new comment or harassment would filter through, and I was getting mail that was less than polite.

  It was a horrible experience, made even worse by the fact that I had spent eight hardworking years, hundreds of thousands of dollars, and every last bit of energy I had on preserving the historical architecture of Minneapolis. Not to mention being a contributing member of the community. I never asked for high praise or the key to the city. But I certainly don’t think I deserved such venom.

  My beloved crew—Jose, Sarah, Andrew, and Dave—escorting me to a Detroit event.

  While Mayor Hodges was busy bashing me, two states away, Detroit mayor Mike Duggan was singing my praises. At some point, the more I was in Detroit and feeling the love, the more I had to ask myself, Why are you focusing your energy on a city that doesn’t want it, when there are cities that do want it? Just like with my relationships, I thought, there are other fish in the sea.

  I decided to let go of Minneapolis and move the bulk of my business to Detroit. Now, don’t get me wrong; I kept my house there for a few reasons: (1) Should my seventeen-year-old son make one peep that he was ready to come home, my butt would be on the next plane back, and (2) some of best friends in the entire world live in Minneapolis. Not to mention the fantastic food there. You may not know this about me, but I’m an eater. Even now, I sneak into town quite often, head down, mouth shut, and treat it like I’m having a vacation in the fabulous city I’ve loved for so many years.

  There I was back in Michigan to have my baby, pretty much bursting at the seams. Nothing was slowing me down. I was enjoying every last minute of it. Even in ninety-degree weather and almost two weeks overdue, I felt good. Dr. Abbou, the doctor who had delivered Ethan, would also be delivering this baby. Then I went in for some tests and found out that my blood pressure was high. The doctor on call said, “I want to admit you and induce labor.” I said, “No way.” She got Dr. Abbou on the phone, and I could tell from her responses that he was telling her to let it go. “Nicole won’t stay. She knows what she’s doing.” I don’t really do “lying still” very well. Anxiety was getting the better of me. People are always surprised when they find out that I have issues with anxiety. They see me on TV dealing with flooded basements, contractors who don’t show up, and all that good jazz. They think I let it all roll off my back. But just because you can juggle chain saws doesn’t mean you don’t get stressed about it. Plus, I was hungry. Unlike with my first pregnancy, I was now a woman who trusted her gut and knew her own body. My blood pressure was high due to the anxiety, and I knew what labor felt like. This wasn’t it, and I wanted this baby to come when he was ready, not from being induced.

  Sarah agreed to take one last photo of me before we headed to the hospital.

  I called Sarah. We had agreed she would come to the hospital when I was in labor, but instead, I asked her if she would make me a late dinner. Sarah knows me well enough that she wasn’t surprised that I wasn’t staying in the hospital. I drove to her house. She gave me a big hug and made me a plate of buttered noodles and chicken. I wolfed it down, thanked her, and promised I would call her when I went into labor.

  At eight the next morning, I woke up and knew I was having some contractions. All I could think of was that Lucy and Max had to be dropped off at the doggy spa. I wouldn’t feel relaxed until the dogs were all squared away. The contractions were a bit stronger but still very far apart. Which meant that if I went to the hospital, I would just be sitting and waiting for hours as the contractions came closer together. I took a hot shower, got dressed, and packed up the dogs. I called Sarah, who said, “Girl, I’m gonna kick your ass. I’m coming to get you.” I convinced her it would be easier and quicker for me to drop off the dogs myself. When I got there, I found Sarah pacing the parking lot. (The girl at the front desk said, “Nicole, when is the baby due?” I smirked, “Today.”)

  Bringing baby home.

  Sarah drove me to my doctor, who looked at me and confirmed, “Nicole, you’re in labor.” Was it five minutes away, or five hours? He said, “You have a while.” So back to Sarah’s we went. I used her sewing tape to measure my belly, took some final pregnancy photos, ate some lunch, and finally—with Sarah about ready to throw me over her shoulder—said, “Okay, we can go to the hospital, but I’m driving.”

  After lunch, Sarah and I met my doula at the hospital. (A doula? So many people ask me that, and I laugh. I had never even heard of such a thing the first time around. A doula is a person who supports you during labor.) And with everything going on in my life, my friends jumped in. Lauren, ever the worrywart, had interviewed and booked the doula (there was no refusing her). I pride myself on being tough and able to handle just about anything, but after eight hours of natural childbirth in a sterile hospital room, and the emotional reality sinking in of being without a partner and missing Ethan, I screamed what for me felt like words of defeat: “Give me the epidural!” A few hours later—yes, hours—in my epidural fog, I even asked Dr. Abbou to bring in a mirror. And then I not only felt my baby come into the world, but I watched it, after jokingly telling Dr. Abbou, “Get out of my way” (he was blocking the mirror). Looking down at my son, I was taken back to that moment some seventeen years ago when I held another little baby in my arms, Ethan, and thought, How blessed I am to be the mom to two beautiful boys.

  My days as a new mommy (the second time around).

  That night, news of my son’s birth had reached social media thanks to some vicious people. And I was appalled at the comments they were making. To make matters worse, a contractor whom I no longer did business with decided that he would take advantage of my vulnerable state and launched a defamatory media story about me. I was crushed. I did a news interview from my recovery room. The contractor later recanted his story, but it didn’t matter. To come at me while I was giving birth was just simply a low blow.

  Much to the disbelief of those closest to me, this workaholic didn’t go straight from the hospital to the job site. I actually took a few days off. My body needed a break. I wasn’t sleeping, but I couldn’t have been happier to have this baby at my breast. And when I say “breast,” I mean it. Breast-feeding is one of those things that you shouldn’t really have an opinion about until you’ve experienced it for yourself. You go through nine long months (and then some, in my case) of carrying a baby, you go through labor, and then your body still has to adjust to feeding your baby. The best analogy I have is that it’s as much fun as running in new shoes without socks across sand in hundred-degree heat. After that break-in period, it’s been an indescribable bond for me and my babies.

  I called my Gram every day to fill her in on the latest. She sent a crocheted blanket for the baby. My fabulous friends took turns taking care of me as I nursed the baby with Lucy by my side. If I could have chucked everything from that moment on and just focused on being a mother, I would have been incredibly happy. But once again, I didn’t have the luxury of being a stay-at-home mom.

  My grandparents in the 1940s (left) and in 2015 (right).

  A few months earlier, two projects had come my way. The home my grandparents had built in the 1950s had been sold years ago, but by some stroke of odd luck, it was foreclosed on and I bought it. We had already started to work on it. I was directing the rehab from my very pregnant perch, but it was far from finished. At about the same time, talks of my renovating the Ransom Gillis house were in the works. It was the house James Marusich had first shown me when I came to Detroit searching for firehouses, but I had let it go to focus on Campbell Street.

  I had inquired about buying it now that it was a new day in Detroit, but I was informed that the city had subsequently bundled the Ransom Gillis house with other houses and acreage in a package to be sold. The real estate developer that bought it was buying up scads of houses in Detroit, investing in the city as part of a program of revitalization. In a strange turn of events, all of a sudde
n, HGTV and I were in the mix to rehab and film this house for TV. Even stranger, it was decided that it would be a “special series” not part of my regular episodic schedule and named Rehab Addict: Detroit, which would cause more confusion in future months than we ever could have imagined. I was very excited as I had thought that once Ransom Gillis was sold, I had missed the opportunity to restore it. I was told in meeting after meeting that I would have complete creative control. Given all the resources that were supposed to be available, we scheduled three weeks for the renovation. It should have been more than enough.

  The Indian Lake Road house (original, top; during foreclosure, center; and after, bottom) was my grandparents’ pride and joy, and now it’s mine, too.

  After all, this is what the real estate developer on this project did on a much larger scale than I had ever dreamed of. If LeBron’s foundation and I could do a house in a week, clearly Ransom Gillis would be a breeze. Most important, I would just be designing the project. I could ease back into work on the Indian Lake Road house and enjoy my first few months with my baby.

  If there is one place that defines who I am as a person, it’s my grandparents’ house on Indian Lake Road. The house was the setting for my fondest memories from childhood.