We laid Liam on his back as they instructed. He was still lifeless. Totally unresponsive. I wanted to wrap him in a blanket and run down the hill and meet the ambulance, but suddenly Liam’s eyelids started to flutter. Okay, so he wasn’t dead—that was really, really good—but I wasn’t relieved yet. His eyes were still rolled back in his head. He still looked like he was dying. “Oh, hurry, hurry,” I wailed into the phone.
Just as the EMTs came in—three minutes from when I called!—Liam gave a little cry. The guy on 911 said, “Oh, it’s a baby!” They hadn’t asked how old he was and I hadn’t told them. The EMTs strapped various monitors to Liam’s tiny chest and we all rode to the hospital.
Dean and Mehran rushed into the waiting room, where I was holding Liam. I was hugely pregnant, and so worried and exhausted. When I saw Dean’s face I felt relieved. He’d take care of us. He’d make sure a doctor saw Liam. He’d take over from here. By then Liam’s color was starting to return and he was whimpering, but he was still out of it. When he saw Dean, he reached out toward him. I handed Liam over. Dean, Liam’s idol.
I was certain Liam had brain damage, but the doctors told me he’d had a febrile seizure, which is a convulsion brought on by a high fever. I’d never heard of it, but apparently what looks like death on a fifteen-month-old baby is actually fairly common and harmless. The seizure, which must have been what Paola saw on the monitor when she thought Liam was throwing up, takes everything out of the baby and he’s totally zonked afterwards. Hence the unresponsive state. Later Paola told me she thought, What happened to Monkey? He had a heart attack. He’s dead.
By the time we got home I’d gone through so much stress (and flying down the stairs!) that the baby—the other one—had dropped. She was on my pelvis. I couldn’t move. I was screaming and crying with the pain. Dr. J said that we could do the cesarean three days early. Dean thought we should do it—he hated to see me in so much anguish—but I refused. I wanted the baby to cook as long as she needed to. So instead I was on strict bed rest for three days, complete with a bedpan and a walker. Nobody saw that part on TV: the show gave us a break and didn’t film those last days of my pregnancy. Thanks, Oxygen.
After that, whatever semblance I had of being a mellow mom was gone. I slept cradling Liam’s video monitor in my arms. One morning Liam slept until 8:15. I stared at the monitor watching the minutes tick by: 8:16, 8:17. At 8:18 I said to Dean, “This isn’t normal. We have to go check on him.” Dean said, “He’s just tired. He’s a baby.” I said, “But what if he’s dead?” I was sure he was dead. Dean said, “How could he be dead? What would he die from?” I looked at him blankly, then thought about his question. I took a moment to contemplate my answer and was dead serious when I said with utter confidence, “Sometimes people just randomly die.”
Yes, random death became my new fear. I’ll admit that it wasn’t completely rational. But at least worrying that something would happen to one of the children or that something would happen to Dean and as a result my children would live a fatherless life was a little more normal than worrying that the unequal treatment of shampoo bottles in my shower would be the butterfly effect that led to world destruction.
I’d never called Dean, or the boyfriends who preceded him, to say, “Where are you?” or “When are you coming home?” I was never the kind of girlfriend who checked up on her man, and I didn’t want or expect to be that kind of wife. But having kids made me become that person for the kids’ sake—and my own peace of mind. Just the other day Dean went to drop something off at four p.m. and wasn’t home by five. I immediately imagined the worst. Oh my God, his children needed him. Where was he? Was he in a car? Driving? But driving was dangerous. He could die. He was dead. He was dead like a dog on the highway.
I’m the same way about Liam—constantly afraid. I may have been calm about my boyfriends, but with my friends’ children I was always the person nobody wanted around, because the second a kid stumbled or scraped himself, I would gasp. You know, that gasp of horror that makes a kid decide he’s hurt and scared and should burst into tears right away. Before I had kids I was always apologizing to Jenny or Sara for the gasping.
What’s worse, Liam is a speedy little man. He’s so fast, I have to be right behind him. When he’s running along the sidewalk right in front of our house, I’m trailing after him picturing him tripping and smashing his head on the concrete. When he first learned to trot I was so scared that he was going to fall and crack his head open that I used to put a bike helmet on him. I’ve worked hard to curtail the use of protective gear. And the gasping, because honestly I’d be gasping twenty-four hours a day and at risk of hyperventilation. When Liam falls, I say, “Yay! Good fall!” Meanwhile my heart is pounding and my blood pressure is off the charts.
As you might imagine, a person who is subject to infinite fears and worries, rational and irrational, doesn’t go into childbirth a model of confidence. Actually, I had myself pretty much convinced that this was it. Giving birth to my daughter was how I was going to die. I was destined to end my life like some impoverished wench in a Dickens novel—during childbirth.
Liam was an unplanned cesarean birth, so by the time I went into the operating room, I was exhausted from seventeen hours of labor. There was no time to worry about how surgery would go. There was no choice in the matter. But this time I had months to think about being cut open. I had never researched the procedure the first time. Seriously, people, they cut your body open. They cut you open, take your bladder off your uterus, cut your uterus open, and pull out a friggin’ baby! Sure, neat trick, but once that stuff is rearranged, how do they know how to put it back? It’s not like the game Operation, where there’s a loud buzz if you make a mistake. It makes perfect sense that you would die. It makes much more sense than that everything will be fine and you will live out a full, happy life with a beautiful child.
All I kept thinking about was this horror film called Turistas with Josh Duhamel where (spoiler alert!) some kids on a bus tour in Brazil get stranded on a remote beach. After they’re robbed, they meet a guy who promises to help them, only to find out that their new friends plan to harvest their organs and sell them on the black market. There is a scene where a doctor gives a girl anesthesia, then cuts her open, and while she is still awake, he is taking her organs out and putting them on her stomach. That’s what was going to happen to me. So what if my doctor was my friend? Someone was going to push him aside and harvest my organs.
In a way, living with my irrational fears had prepared me for childbirth and motherhood. I was so used to moving forward despite the morbid fantasies that I accepted my fate with resignation—if approaching a cesarean with unmitigated terror can be considered accepting one’s fate. This fear of mine wasn’t the fault of Mommywood, and it was hard to pin it on my upbringing, though in therapy I tried. It was just who I was and I’d have to protect my kids from the same mind-set as best I could.
My Birthday Girls
The day of my cesarean was upon us. It was June 9, which also happened to be the eleventh birthday of my beloved pug Mimi (you know Mimi!). My daughter and Mimi would have the same birthday. I was (of course) a nervous wreck about the surgery that I was convinced would end my life, but we still had a birthday party for Mimi before we went to the hospital. Isabel, our longtime housekeeper (or dog nanny as she calls herself) made her a cake with eleven candles. Lord knows I love a birthday party, but I can’t say I was very gung ho about this one. I was rushing around, trying to pack my bag. Granted, I should have been packed already, but this was number two. I didn’t have my act together. We were late to the hospital, and I didn’t really want to explain to Dr. J that we were late to surgery because of a dog’s birthday party. But she was a very special dog.
I was all worked up about the cesarean, thinking those crazy thoughts I let get the better of me. Outside the operating room, Dr. J tried to reassure me. He said, “You walk to the operating room, get on the table, have an epidural, and half an hour later you�
�ll have your baby girl. It’s easy.” It sounded simple and civilized, but my heart was pounding so hard that I thought the baby had moved up to my chest and was trying to kick her way out (which, come to think of it, seems as arbitrary and likely as any of the other options). I was weeping. I knew that even if I didn’t die, I was never doing this again. It was too horrifying. It wasn’t worth it. This was definitely my last child.
It was time. Mehran and my friend Amy, who had come to support me, waited outside the operating room. I bid them farewell, saying, “Good-bye, I love you,” as if these were the last words I’d ever exchange with my dearest friends. Dean had to wait outside the door of the operating room while they gave me the epidural. I hadn’t expected that; I was counting on Dean’s being with me the whole time. But Dr. J held my hands and said, “Just look in my eyes. It’s going to be fine.” I’m lucky that my doctor happens to be my friend. I’m pretty sure most doctors wouldn’t be staring into my eyes and holding my hands. It did cross my mind that locking the surgeon’s hands in a death grip wasn’t exactly wise. He was going to need those hands to make a precise incision. But I couldn’t let go.
The epidural took, Dean came to my side, and then, not much later, I heard my daughter’s first cry. It was the best feeling imaginable.
When I was pregnant, Dean and I read through a baby name book with five thousand listings. There wasn’t a single name we liked. Naming Liam had been easier than I had expected. When I found out I was having a boy, Dean said, “I’ve always liked the name Liam,” and I said, “I love it.” His middle name was Aaron, for my dad. It was that simple. But my whole life I’d wanted to name my baby girl Estella because I loved the book Great Expectations. Dean liked the name too. Her middle name would be Doreen for Dean’s mother. Estella Doreen McDermott—we thought we were set. We lived with that for a month, but one night I told Dean it didn’t sound right. He agreed. Then we thought of Stella. It’s Latin for “star,” and it was beautiful: Stella Doreen McDermott.
When I heard Stella’s little wail, I immediately thought, I can’t wait to get pregnant again! After all my fear and anguish. That’s how it goes: no matter what kind of pain childbirth involves, women are made to forget instantly so that we’re willing to keep reproducing.
As with Liam, when Stella cried I felt overwhelming joy. She was there. She was real. I was so excited that I started crying. But then, when they took her over to measure her and do those tests they do, I was struck by a totally new feeling of worry. Oh my God, when she was inside me I could protect her. When she was in utero I had control, but now she was out in the world. They had her over there on the scale and I couldn’t get to her. I couldn’t reach her. I wanted them to give her back to me right away. It struck me that this was what it was going to be like for her whole life. I was going to worry. With Liam I felt pure happiness. Joy, joy, joy. But that underlying fear and worry with Stella hit me heavily. I was going to worry about her more than I worried about Liam.
Was it because she was a girl? Boys could take care of themselves but girls brought a whole new set of worries. I always reflect on that feeling and how my response to the children was different, literally at birth.
When they put Stella in Dean’s arms, he started bawling. Dean has always wanted a little girl. He was sobbing uncontrollably. He said, “My daughter. Thank you for giving me my daughter.” It made me cry again, and the two of us wept over that precious baby like fools.
When Liam was born, my mother’s appearance at the hospital was a huge part of the experience. She and I hadn’t spoken since my dad’s funeral, and her being there for me was an act of reconciliation. All the same, her presence shifted my focus away from the baby. Was she angry? Was she okay? Was she annoyed that I had too many visitors in the hospital room? What should I talk to her about? This time my mother didn’t come, but I felt like my real family was there.
I guess the best way to explain the feeling is this: You know how when you have your closest friends over for dinner, you don’t worry about them. If the food’s not ready and they’re hungry, you know they’ll help themselves. But as soon as you go beyond that first circle of friends and entertain people you don’t see all the time, it starts to be work. You have to make sure they’re comfortable and having a good time. My mother should feel like my real family, closer to me than my circle of friends, but in my case the situation is reversed. My mom is the one I need to make sure is kept comfortable and entertained. But not this time. It was just me, Dean, Mehran, Amy, and by the time the baby was born, Jenny. I didn’t feel sad at all. I relaxed and focused on Stella.
We hadn’t had time to move into the new house before the baby was born. I was so stressed about it that our amazing friends Scout, Suzanne, Marcel, and James volunteered to oversee the movers and to unpack us while I was in the hospital giving birth to Stella. So we came home to a totally different house with a new family member. It was like Christmas.
When we opened the door of our brand-new suburban dream house and carried four-day-old Stella inside, we were greeted by our cameramen. We were back to work. It may not sound like work, being on a reality show. All you have to do is live your life while other people follow you around with cameras. But it feels like more than that. It means a film crew is in my house and I’m going to be out there for the world to see. With Liam, Dean and I had a nice, long maternity leave to bond with him. Not this time.
The biggest welcome home came from Mimi. She squealed, turned in circles, and waited for me to come over to her bed to introduce Stella. Ever since Liam was first born, Mimi seemed to know that his baby clothes belonged to him. But during my pregnancy as I started to get clothes for Stella, and so many of them were Mimi’s signature color—pink—she thought they were for her. When Mimi saw me unwrap a new little pink dress, she sprang to life. She’d run over, excited, as if she assumed I was going to put it on her. The day we came home from the hospital, when we walked through the door, Isabel had dressed Mimi up for our arrival. She was flaunting a beautiful pink cashmere sweater that someone had sent for Stella. I shrugged; eh, we’ll wash it. She was so happy. And stylish.
Good Fences Make Good Neighbors
We didn’t live in the new house before Stella was born, but we’d already gotten a first taste of the neighborhood. Okay, so I get it that a paparazzi-hounded reality star may not be the “good family neighborhood” dream neighbor. She’s probably got too many cars, too much trash, reality show cameramen coming and going at all hours of the night, and a stalker or two on top of it all. Also, she’s probably a pretentious snob who doesn’t give a crap about her neighbors, leaves shopping bags in her wake, and would be the last person in the world to, say, pick up your newspaper if you were out of town.
From the start, the neighbors were a little skeptical about me and Dean. (I’d be surprised if they were skeptical about Liam.) We did a little work on the house before we moved in—changing the cabinets in the kitchen, putting up wallpaper—and one neighbor commented to me about the commotion. I was surprised; I think it’s pretty common to paint a house before you move in.
But that comment wasn’t all. We had considered putting up a small gate in the front of the house. Nothing forbidding—just a low gate to let the paparazzi know exactly where our property line started. Then we decided against it because it was too pricey. Next thing I know, one of my neighbors—let’s call him Wally—sent me an email. (I’d given my email to the Fourth of July block party planning committee. Isn’t that what good neighbors do?) It was a polite, but forceful email that said something like, “This is a charming, close-knit neighborhood. We understand that you have security issues, but a huge six-foot wall is not only illegal, it will take away from the charm of the neighborhood. And it’d be a shame to put it in because if you do, we’re all going to get together with torches and megaphones and baseball bats, march over to your house, and make you take it down.” Okay, he may not have mentioned torches. But he did mention a six-foot wall. A six-foot wall? Wher
e did he get that? Welcome to the neighborhood.
I responded with an equally polite email. We actually had decided not to put up a fence. And by the way, we were never planning to put up a six-foot anything! Then I added, “Not having a fence puts my safety at risk, but since this is such a tight-knit neighborhood, I just know that when a rabid Donna Martin fan breaks in and you hear my screams, you’ll rush to my aid.” I fantasized for a minute about sending the email as it was, then deleted the crazed fan part.
The day I got home from the hospital we went back to filming for Tori & Dean. The show has a small crew, about five or six people. They show up in a single van. There are no big cameras or extras. It’s a pretty small and quiet operation. The crew is always very respectful. When they showed up first thing in the morning, they knocked quietly and asked if the babies were awake. If anyone was still sleeping, they’d hang out on the front lawn until we invited them in. On one of those days Wally stopped our painter and asked if we had a permit to do the show at our house. He said, “It’s like they’re making a porno.” Wally, our personal welcome committee.
When the painter reported this to me, all the air came out of the balloon of my dreams. Dean got really mad. He was pacing around the living room declaring that he wanted to knock on the guy’s door and say, “Who do you think you are? I’m moving in with my family. We have a newborn baby. We worked hard to be able to afford to live here. This is the welcome we get?”
Mommywood Page 7
