Drinking and Tweeting

by Glanville, Brandi

  The boys quickly learned to take advantage of the situation, and everything became a game. They were constantly trying to figure out what they could shake me down for. I would take them to the toy store or Target and let them go wild. Their eyes would beam with excitement as they ran up and down the aisles grabbing everything off the shelves. Once we got to the car, they would rip the boxes open, and for the next fifteen minutes I was the best mom in the whole world. The next day, I would find the toys lying in a corner of the room, where they would stay indefinitely. It was a quick fix. I was just throwing shit at these kids to make myself feel better, rather than doing something positive for my boys.

  That’s where Eddie and I both fucked up, because I knew he was doing the same thing. And I knew he felt the same way I did about it. We couldn’t buy our children’s affection. That’s not what this was about, and they were learning to manipulate us against each other into getting what they wanted. We were drowning these children with these lavish, expensive gifts, and I simply couldn’t afford it anymore.

  The other shoe finally dropped when I told the boys we were flying up north to see their grandparents and their cousins, and they asked, “Are we flying private?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I thought. “You’re little boys and you’re asking me if we’re taking a private jet to Sacramento?”

  “No,” I barked. “We’re flying Southwest.”

  Instead of randomly showering the boys with presents, I decided to implement a program to make them work for their rewards. I’m aware this is far from a novel idea, but sometimes the simple lessons are the most difficult to learn. I decided to set up a chore-and-reward chart. For every good day, they would get one point, and once they reached ten points—meaning ten “good” days—they could trade that in for one $10 toy.

  Okay, I know this seems like a lot of money for just behaving, but come on, people; this is Los Angeles, after all. If I offered them a quarter, they would just laugh at me, so I’m working with what I’ve got. It isn’t the most earth-shattering advice, but it has worked well for my family, so far. When the boys earn enough to buy themselves a toy, I take them to the store to pick something out. They can only buy it if they can afford it, with not a penny from me. And guess what? They keep that toy at their hip for weeks.

  It’s easy to get caught up in the competition, but that wasn’t what was important anymore. It took me a while to get there, but I was finally realizing what mattered most: our kids. Being a parent isn’t easy. Being a single parent is harder. Being a single parent in Los Angeles is just about as tough as it gets.

  While Eddie and I shared the same meager financial beginnings, we actually had very different familial environments. Eddie came from a conservative Cuban family; his parents maintained the traditional roles of husband and wife. His dad was a banker and his mom was an office manager/bookkeeper. My family was far from traditional. My mother was a free-spirited, braless hippie who gave me a graphic rendering of intercourse at a young age after I asked for it, and my dad, well, we already talked about the marijuana he grew in the backyard—both of which made me popular in high school. We were always naked in the house and taught from a young age to love and respect our bodies. So if I wasn’t rocking my totally eighties gymnastics leotard, I was in a tiny dress. (Wearing lots of clothes has never been my thing—obviously.)

  When it came time to start having difficult conversations with our oldest son, Eddie left it to me—and because my mother was open with me, it came easily. Yes, it can be awkward as hell to talk to your five-year-old about why it’s inappropriate to show his penis to a female classmate, but these conversations need to happen.

  Mason recently came home from his dad’s house and announced, “Dad told me what ho means.” My son was trying to get a temperature read on my reaction, but I didn’t budge.

  “Okay, Mase, what does it mean?”

  “It’s short for hooker,” he said, a little proud of himself. Then he looked back at me. “What does hooker mean?”

  Of course, Eddie had taken the easy way out. He answered Mason’s question with something that would inevitably lead to more questions, but for Eddie, that was easier then actually confronting the issue. Just as my parents did with me, I try to tell the boys the truth whenever possible (except in the cases of both Santa Claus and divorce), but how does a parent explain prostitution to a nine-year-old?

  “A hooker is a man or woman who will give a person a lot of physical attention in exchange for money,” I said. “Most people consider this a bad thing, because it’s not real and it’s illegal to do this.” Except in Vegas or Amsterdam.

  I think Mason was a little underwhelmed with the answer and had expected it to be far more salacious, but he accepted it. He’ll figure it out one day, but for now he knew the basics and was able to walk away understanding two important things about a word that should never be used by children: (1) its true meaning (at least the crux of it) and (2) that it wasn’t socially acceptable.

  I’m doing my best to appreciate my boys while they’re still young. Children in Los Angeles grow up a lot faster than kids in other parts of the country, and I know it’s only a matter of time before the boys are too embarrassed to give their mommy a kiss before school or hold her hand at the grocery store. I hear stories all the time of young children experimenting with drugs, and of parents overhearing their kids having graphic sexual conversations. How many tween starlets have been caught sending “sext” messages and naked photos? Looking back on my life, I thought even seventeen was a bit too young for me to be doing what I was doing, but today’s children are doing that stuff in junior high school—and these kids are preteens! They should be having slumber parties and prank-calling their classmates . . . not smoking pot and having oral-sex parties.

  But with so many absentee and self-involved parents in Hollywood, it’s all too common and, unfortunately, a reality that I have to face. When children are left to their own devices, they will cry out for attention any way they can, and oftentimes it’s by saying and doing things that are not only inappropriate, but also dangerous and illegal.

  Luckily, Eddie and I have done a fairly good job of shielding the boys from a lot of the douchebaggery that comes with Los Angeles, but I am also going to be honest and forthcoming with my children when they ask me real questions. Filling them with nonsense isn’t going to help anything.

  When Mason wanted to go to sleepaway camp last summer, I decided it was time to have a conversation with him about what is appropriate and what is inappropriate behavior between an adult and a child.

  I wasn’t ready for him to go to sleepaway camp, and it became a larger issue between Eddie and me when I said no. At nine years old, I didn’t feel he was prepared for situations that could be dangerous—whether it was sleepaway camp, day camp, or surf camp. I figured that if I started those important conversations now, he would be better prepared the following year . . . and so would I.

  One afternoon when Mason was throwing a fit that he was the only one of his friends not going to sleepaway camp that summer, I decided we should have the discussion. We sat together on the floor of my kitchen and had an honest, sincere conversation, and one that I will cherish. Look, trying to explain rape and molestation to your kids is never easy, but if you don’t prepare them, who will? Mason and I talked about the serious stuff. He asked questions and I answered the best I could. I told him that, most important, if anything happened, he would need to tell someone he trusted immediately. Even though someone taking advantage of him might fill his head with empty threats about hurting him or his family, that person was a bad person and Mason could always tell his dad or me. Nothing would happen to us, and the most important thing Mason could do was to speak up and immediately tell someone.

  We live in a culture where no one speaks up, and I wish people would. For instance, why didn’t someone at my wedding say, “Oh, yeah, I have a reason these two should not be joined in holy matrimony: he fucked half the cocktail wa
itresses in Hollywood.” I would have applauded that person’s candor—after crawling out of my hole.

  Eddie was none too pleased with my decision to talk to Mason about molestation, but I stood my ground. I think sometimes Eddie fights with me because he feels he has to. Does he seriously expect me to believe that he would have preferred having that conversation with Mason himself? He didn’t even have the wherewithal to properly explain to the boys the definition of playboy when he was on his short-lived NBC series.

  Once again, Mommy had to do all the heavy lifting. I sat the boys down to talk to them about Mommy’s and Daddy’s jobs. I think that’s important to do, regardless of your profession. As I mentioned earlier, the value of a dollar is lost on most children, so if they can better understand what you do every day when you’re away from home, and that it allows you to keep food on the table and toys in the toy box, everyone is better served.

  “Mommy and Daddy are both on TV shows,” I said. “You can’t watch either of them, because they are inappropriate for children. When you are older, you can watch them.” The boys wouldn’t understand watching their dad on television kissing another woman, and Eddie’s show had a violence- and sex-fueled story line that was too adult for them, anyway. It would be confusing for the boys. It was even difficult for me to accept that Eddie was making out with other women for television shows and movies, but I had to remind myself that it was only acting. Did I ever tell you about this little made-for-TV movie he did called Northern Lights? I guess Eddie was a real Method actor. #JustSayin.

  “Why would you do a show if it’s inappropriate?” Mason asked. He’s always one step ahead.

  “Because that’s the world we live in, Mason. It’s a television show for grown-ups, and it helps Daddy pay his bills and it helps Mommy pay our bills.”

  Late last year, Eddie and I started a legal battle to determine whether the boys could be shown during background shots of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. My ex-husband is adamantly against the idea, but I am arguing that it is in all of our best interests. I’m by no means trying to exploit the boys or putting them directly in front of the camera, but simply in passing (like Adrienne Maloof’s three kids). When we are shooting a season, I am constantly filming, and that restricts the time I have with the boys. If they can at least be around the cameras, that makes working so much easier. And as Eddie damn well knows, I need the money.

  “Are you an actor?” Jake asked. Separating “reality personality” from “actor” is something the boys are still having a little bit of trouble with.

  “No, honey, I’m not an actor. Mommy is just being herself on television.”

  “When we used to go out with Dad and Le, people used to take our photos all the time,” Jake said. My sons had also gotten used to the paparazzi. At first it was exciting to them that people wanted to take their picture, but they quickly became numb to it. “Now when we go out with you, there are more photographers. Why is that?”

  I was floored. I know children are sponges that absorb everything around them, but I would never have expected them to notice this, and I was not prepared with an answer. I wanted to blurt out, “I forgot to tell you that I got somewhat famous thanks to your dad, who brutally divorced me in front of the world and left me for a country singer. So your mom got a job on this really popular reality show, and your dad got a job on a lackluster drama series that was canceled after four episodes. Oh, and karma’s a bitch.” But, alas, you can’t say that to a kid. Plus, I’ve been told once or twice that I should think before I speak, so I held my tongue.

  To this day, I’m pretty sure Jake believes that a playboy is someone who lives in Chicago and gets to ride the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier.

  To give credit where it’s due, Eddie became an extremely hands-on dad during our divorce. He wasn’t a hands-on parent while we were married, but once he was given scheduled times to be with the boys, the dad thing came naturally to him. He took them to baseball games and amusement parks; he took them out to lunch and to the movies. Relatively normal stuff, but the boys were so excited to be doing all these activities with Eddie. When they would come back to my house a few days later, their faces would light up as they told me about all the exciting things they did with their dad. It sincerely warmed my heart. I was so happy that they were developing this crucial relationship with their father. Eddie’s father, Carl, was and is a loving parent, so I always knew Eddie had it in him.

  Most men underestimate how much they enjoy being a father, until they no longer have the privilege all the time. As a parent, you take for granted that you can be with your children whenever you want, but when you’re sharing them with someone else, it can be an eye-opening experience. I think sharing custody has its pros and cons. It sucks not having my kids whenever I want them. Sometimes, I’m having a bad day and all I need is to see Jakey’s mischievous smile or feel one of Mason’s bear hugs to bring me back to center. Splitting the holidays is also pretty rough, made even more difficult when you don’t have a partner to share them with. I think the hardest thing is watching another parent figure enter their lives. It’s something Eddie has yet to experience, but I can tell you firsthand that it’s excruciating. Knowing that one day my sons might go to their bonus mom to ask for advice on a girl they like or for help with their algebra homework (as if she’d know how to do it, anyway), or even for something as simple as lunch money, is a wretched feeling. On the other hand, both Eddie and I have learned to value and appreciate the days we get with the boys, now that it’s only half the year. And with part of my week free, I’m able to do things for myself, such as working, writing, shopping, etc. Because of my breakup, I discovered that I missed me time while I was married. I didn’t give myself enough of it, and it’s crucial. On the flip side, I think Eddie discovered that he really missed Dad time. We both finally established a better balance, and in a weird way, I think it has made us better parents.

  Regardless of your marital status, religion, ethnicity, or sexual orientation, I think we can all agree that Los Angeles is one of the most difficult cities in which to raise normal, grounded children.

  First of all, don’t get me started on the Los Angeles Unified School District. As I said, my parents sent my siblings and me to private school, because the local public schools were simply too dangerous for us to attend. In Los Angeles, if you want to send your children to a high-rated public school, you have two options: be prepared to drop $10 million on a home in Beverly Hills proper (not Post Office, there is a difference! Just because it says 90210 doesn’t mean you’re actually in Beverly Hills) or pack up your family and move to Calabasas. Eddie and I chose the latter.

  Most well-regarded private schools in Los Angeles cost about $20,000 a year. Are you kidding me? Basically, by the time your kid goes from kindergarten to twelfth grade, you’ve already dropped more than a quarter of a million dollars on his or her education—that’s a fucking house in most towns. #LAProblems. Luckily, despite my move to Encino, the boys are still able to go to the public grade school near our old home. We don’t have to worry about high school for a few more years yet, but I’m already psyching myself up to write a pretty staggering tuition check. (So please, lose this copy of my book and go buy a new one. Encourage all your friends to do the same.)

  It isn’t just the schools that come with the outrageous price tag; just about everything else in Los Angeles is subject to a West Coast markup. Some of you may have heard about a $50,000 Mad Hatter–themed birthday party for a four-year-old girl thrown by one particular Beverly Hills housewife. As atrocious as it might sound, it’s not that uncommon.

  The boys and I went to one birthday party in our old Calabasas neighborhood for a two-year-old boy at which the “event planner” had blocked off the entire cul-de-sac to create a race-car track. The birthday boy could barely walk, but he needed a fucking racetrack at his birthday? The dads sure did seem to enjoy it. Birthday parties here are almost always more for the parents than they are for the children. There�
��s a certain need to impress and outdo one another: If one party had Buzz Lightyear show up, the next would have Buzz, Woody, and Mr. Potato Head appear. The gift bags alone cost a fortune. You’re spending $10 to $15 a goodie bag for roughly thirty kids . . . and for what? To fill it with junk that most kids will likely toss to the corner of a room as soon as they get home? When it’s all said and done, the kids don’t give two shits. They just want to run around, scream, and eat cake.

  For Mason’s first birthday, I spent $10,000 on an incredibly lavish party—complete with an ice bar and margarita machines, costumed entertainers, and catered Texas BBQ. Mason slept through most of the festivities, but the nanny did trot him out for a few photo ops with his birthday cake. (Staged photo ops were something that would unfortunately become second nature for my little man.)

  After my divorce, I could no longer afford the decadent birthdays the boys were so used to having, and I felt guilty. For Jakey’s fourth birthday party, we took over a Chuck E. Cheese in the Valley, and I remember sweating over having to split the bill with their dad. (Couldn’t he and his sugar mama have just picked up the check? I was the one forced to sit there with a broken ankle, across from his new wife and my former in-laws.) The following year, I decided to do my own thing and keep Jake’s birthday party low budget: a platter of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, a grocery-store cake, and a few bottles of wine and beer for the adults. And you know what? I think it was the best party he ever had, because there wasn’t all this stress and anticipation. Instead, he got to run around in the backyard like an animal with all of his friends, jumping all over the swing set and playing games. Inside, the parents all appeared casual and relaxed. Or maybe I just noticed it, because I finally was.