Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  Each weekly visit to the fertility clinic was a roller-coaster ride. There was blood work, pronouncements about the quality and quantity of my eggs and lots of emotional ups and downs. I began to feel like a lab experiment. At the end of each day, who could consider romance when my plumbing was under renovation?

  Every night I looked at my flat abdomen and prayed for the gift of pregnancy—and patience, as I knew it could take time to conceive. After years of smooth sailing in my career and in the romance department, I was hitting some serious potholes in the road of life. I began to wonder whether I was meant to give birth and if all of this pain and stress was worth it. One month we were excited to begin the egg fertilization process only to discover that I had missed my ovulation period during an overseas reporting trip. I often found myself in tears.

  Then, after several frustrating and painful misfires . . . a miracle. I was indeed pregnant! Al and I were having a baby.

  God is good.

  This was a treasured pregnancy. I could feel the radiance emanating from this pea-size ball of hope and light within me. I cherished every flutter and twinge I felt. Kathy and other colleagues at work joined us in our joy. I even shared the news of my pregnancy on Good Morning America. The good wishes and excitement filled us with unimaginable joy. And just as thrilling, my career was on the ascent.

  I was gradually moving into the prestigious world of news anchoring, filling in on Good Morning America and the weekend edition of ABC World News Tonight while of course remaining a regular correspondent at 20/20. While my belly grew, so did my stature at the network. I was known as a dependable and seasoned journalist; now stardom was just over the horizon. I owed a lot to Amy Entelis, the company’s vice president for talent relations. She believed in me and she was also becoming a trusted adviser and friend.

  At the time, things were a bit rocky at the network. The ratings for Good Morning America had been slipping, and longtime anchors Joan Lunden and Charlie Gibson had left the program, leading to a game of musical chairs. It was somewhat dizzying and uncomfortable to be sure, but it was also an opportunity for someone new to the scene like me. ABC was turning to me often, and I was becoming a big part of the family, especially at Good Morning America. The further along I got in my pregnancy, the more we incorporated it into on-air conversations as a way for the audience to get to know me. I began referring to my unborn baby as “Pookie” on the air, having fun with hosts Lisa McRee and Kevin Newman during this magical time in my life. I was excited about everything in front of me, from my exploding career to my expanding belly. I couldn’t wait to be a mom. At the same time, I was also secretly feeling vulnerable and uncertain about how having a baby would affect everything I was working so hard to establish. I wondered if I was prepared to juggle this long-awaited miracle baby with a grueling work schedule. Could I bear to leave her in the arms of someone else and race off to the studio or jump on a plane for the next assignment? I had always thought that this decision would be logical and easy, but it was now weighing heavily on me.

  Al, on the other hand, was completely and deliriously ready for our bundle of joy. His career was secure and he already had his morning routine well in place. His alarm would go off at four a.m. and he was out of the house by five. On the many days I was appearing on Good Morning America, I was keeping a similar schedule. Long before reality TV, we were a perfect fit for our own show, both of us bleary-eyed and bumbling around in the darkness for an early-morning call. Then we’d hop on the elevator and step into the predawn light together, get into our respective cars, and head to competing morning shows. Sometimes we even showed up on the air at the same time, much to the amusement of our families. As a couple, it was fine and manageable. We both had dinner at six and fell asleep by eight thirty. But what if this was a permanent arrangement? What would it mean to our newborn baby if we were both gone before she even woke up? Could I handle that kind of emotional tug-of-war?

  Could I hit pause and postpone my career trajectory?

  After trying for so long to get pregnant, what was I willing to sacrifice for the well-being of my child?

  Amy had asked me point-blank if I could see myself on the morning show. I knew she was taking my temperature in case the network wanted to offer me the prized job as news anchor. Like any ambitious reporter, I told her, “Of course I could.”

  I was flattered and thrilled. I was also terrified! I should have been honest with Amy, but I was worried it would be career suicide. Instead, I spilled my guts to a senior producer at ABC whom I trusted and admired very much. I wanted his opinion because I knew he could be neutral and nonemotional, plus he had worked on the morning program and knew the rhythm well.

  “Deborah, are you sure you want to sacrifice your personal life for a program that is still under construction and isn’t stable or secure yet?” he said. “I predict there will be other changes before this is all over.”

  That was the first time I had considered whether I was walking onto a sinking ship and might lose my footing in the process. Maybe he was right. Maybe this wasn’t the time to sign on with so much at stake professionally and personally. Would I sacrifice precious time with my daughter only to end up dismissed from a troubled program, just as others had been? I wrestled with this idea, playing out every possible scenario in my head.

  One Saturday, just before my daughter was born, I received a call from David Westin, the head of the news division. He said he wanted to talk to me about becoming news anchor. Even though I’d known it was probably coming, I felt completely unprepared! Ordinarily, anyone would jump for joy at the prospect of what he was offering. In fact, if I got that same call today, I would be thrilled. But at the time, I was so petrified about the uncertainty of what I was facing, personally and professionally, I wasn’t sure how to respond. I was paralyzed by fear of the unknown. Instead of being excited and appreciative, I was hesitant and a bit aloof. I asked if I could get back to him with my answer.

  I spent the weekend discussing the pros and cons with Al and my agent, Richard Leibner. There was a lot to consider. I was about to have my first baby, a baby I’d struggled to conceive. I knew if I signed on to the troubled morning show, I would need to hit the ground running immediately—no maternity leave—and give it my all. I also knew I would never get those first few months of bonding time with Leila back. I didn’t want to regret that, and I didn’t want to resent the network if they later decided to rearrange the morning lineup again, at my expense.

  Richard understood, but cautioned that it could be awkward. “The network hates to hear the word ‘no,’” he gently offered. I was torn and confused. I was certainly not intending to take on a lighter workload after becoming a mother, but did I want to increase the pressure and the hours? In retrospect, I wish I had called Amy for a heart-to-heart mom talk, but I didn’t. In the end, I came to the conclusion that it was not the right time for me to take the job.

  On Monday morning I reluctantly passed. David Westin was visibly surprised. Who would turn down such an opportunity? It was a defining moment that I now realize was a career torpedo. Although I had imagined it as a worst-case scenario, I didn’t expect to be an exile to the land of “mommyhood.” But when I returned to work, things were slightly different. Suddenly the assignments I had been used to getting dried up. Any ascension toward the anchor world came to a halt. I still filled in on the weekend nightly news from time to time and continued with my regular segments on 20/20, but other specialized assignments no longer came my way. The buzz of excitement had quieted. I’m not going to lie—it was painful.

  But I was able to bond with my daughter in a way I wouldn’t have if I had gone that route, and for that reason alone, I wouldn’t change a thing. I was able to spend three carefree months at home with Leila, breastfeeding her on demand, strolling through the park with her on long walks and getting to know my little Pookie. It was sheer bliss.

  Do I ever wonder how things m
ight have been different if I had taken the anchor job and had gone forward on that path?

  Sure, sometimes.

  In fact, I confess that I had second thoughts about my decision for months—okay, for years. But I ultimately made peace with my choice. Every woman—and I hope every parent—has to weigh what is best for the family as a whole. After years of thought and prayer about moments gained and lost, I now know one true thing. When we make decisions, we must own them: no second-guessing or what-might-have-beens. I have faith that God guides our decisions and puts us on the road we’re supposed to be on. Happiness is contingent on accepting our choices.

  AL

  What Do Soupy Sales and Drake Have in Common?

  AUGUST 1965

  “Mom! Mom! Soupy Sales is playing at the Singer Bowl! Can you take me? Please?”

  I was eleven years old and I was desperate to see Soupy Sales at the World’s Fairgrounds in Queens, New York. Soupy Sales was a master of slapstick comedy, a descendant of the baggy-pants comedians of vaudeville and burlesque. It might be hard to imagine today, but when I was a kid, Soupy was a huge star who could get away with hitting guys like Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. in the face with a pie. People actually lined up to get hit in the face with one of his pies!

  I was what you might call a hard-core Soupy Sales fan. Like any devotee, I collected his fan magazine and even had all the Soupy Sales comic books, published by Archie Comics. I had all his albums, and played his three hit songs, “The Mouse,” “Your Brains Will Fall Out” and “Pachalafaka,” over and over, making my parents nuts. To me, he was a rock star. I watched his show every day on WNEW, Channel 5 in New York. If Soupy was eating grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch, you can bet I was too! I’m not exactly sure how big his demographic was with preteen black kids, but he had me.

  In short, I was obsessed with the guy, and once I found out he was coming to Queens, I was relentless in my pursuit to get tickets to his show.

  My mom didn’t exactly have a great appreciation for slapstick comedy. She didn’t like Abbott and Costello, didn’t get Laurel and Hardy and hated the Three Stooges. To her, Soupy Sales fell into that same category of entertainment. The idea of a pie in the face wasn’t funny to her—or most women, whose first thought is usually, “Who’s going to clean up that mess?”

  Despite feeling like she’d rather have a toothache than see Soupy Sales, Mom could see how much this meant to me—or I wore her down with my begging—and she agreed to take me and my friend Keith Morgan to the show at the Singer Bowl. When the day arrived, all of Queens seemed to be out in the streets. The World’s Fairgrounds were packed and the buses and subway trains were too. When we got off the number 7 train, we walked for what felt like miles among the sea of people.

  Mom kept asking, “Is Soupy Sales really this popular?” She didn’t have any idea that the Beatles were playing nearby, at Shea Stadium!

  Our tickets were in the nosebleed section, but it didn’t matter. I was there to see my hero and, deep down, I secretly believed he would somehow see me. Knowing I could barely see the stage, Mom bought me a pair of souvenir binoculars with Soupy’s face on them. For an hour and a half, Keith and I laughed at his jokes and sang along to his hits. I was in heaven. To this day, I fondly remember this as one of the best nights of my life.

  Mom, on the other hand, paid absolutely no attention to the concert. She spent the ninety minutes reading a book.

  Many years later, when Soupy was the midday radio host on AM 66 WNBC, I finally had the chance to meet my hero, just like in my childhood dreams. But it was even better: We became friends, and he was my sponsor into the Friars Club, the renowned show-business fraternity.

  OCTOBER 2013

  “Dad, Dad! Drake is playing at the new Barclay Center in Brooklyn and at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center too. Is there any way you would let me go?”

  I’d love to tell you this was my first experience taking one of my kids to a concert I didn’t want to go to, but it wasn’t. My older daughter, Courtney, somehow figured out a way to get me to take her and some of her friends to their first Jingle Ball—an annual concert at Madison Square Garden where twelve or more acts perform a couple of songs each—for four hours! The sheer pandemonium of it had me thinking I had actually found hell on earth. As I sat there enduring the pain, every minute feeling like an hour, I flashed back on my mother taking me to Soupy Sales that night and thought to myself, “Oh, right. This is what we do as parents . . . Now I get it.”

  It still didn’t make being there any easier.

  The following year Courtney asked me to take her to the Jingle Ball again. Being a little older, though, she said, “Dad, do you have to sit with us?”

  I understood where she was coming from, so I got a ticket for myself a couple of rows back. I packed an itty-bitty night-light, foam earplugs, headphones and a book and thought, “This time, I’m ready!”

  The band Smash Mouth was onstage singing their hit song “All Star,” and despite myself I found myself singing along. I never once lifted my head up from the pages of my book—until a roar began to build from the crowd. When I looked up, I realized that someone thought it was a good idea to flash a shot of me on the Jumbotron!

  Ugh!

  I knew in my heart that Courtney was mortified. Nobody else would know she was my daughter, but I knew she would think seeing her dad up on the Jumbotron was horrendous.

  In that moment, I said to myself, “I am done with this.” I never wanted to put one of my kids through that kind of embarrassment again.

  But when my daughter Leila came to me with such passion, such hope, such desire to see her beloved Drake—what was I supposed say?

  “No,” I told her.

  Are you kidding me? I’ve listened to this guy’s music. There was no way I would let my fifteen-year-old daughter go to a Drake concert.

  But, of course, I then thought back to my mother and the sacrifice she made for me when she took me to see Soupy Sales, and I realized I had responded without thinking about it first. I didn’t want to be the dad who was always saying “No!” so I changed my answer to, “Okay . . . if I take you.”

  The look on her face was a cross between disbelief and abject horror. I could see her processing the concept. “I want to go to this concert more than anything, but the thought of being seen with my old-fogy father is so depressing. Yet I want to go sooooo badly . . .”

  “Leila,” I said, interrupting her reverie, “do you want to go or not?”

  “I guess so. Can you sit in another section?”

  I didn’t want to take a gaggle of girls to Brooklyn, because the Barclay Center is very large and overwhelming, especially on a Saturday night. The concert in New Jersey was on Sunday night, which somehow felt more, well, tame, but it was a school night, which meant by the time the concert was over, we’d have no choice but to hightail it home and we’d still get in past midnight—not ideal for a kid who has to get up for school and a dad who has to get up even earlier for work.

  I looked up other options and saw that Drake was playing Hartford, Connecticut, the night before Brooklyn. Hartford was only a couple hours away by car. Bingo! Since the show was on a Friday night, we could have a father-daughter getaway. We’d make a road trip out of it.

  I booked two hotel rooms—one for Leila and her friends and one for me. It took the girls two hours to get ready for the show. Thankfully, I had planned for the primping in advance and got us to the hotel early.

  Let’s not even talk about the transformation of Leila and her pals from clearly fifteen-year-olds to young women whom guys were going to be ogling. I do not like this part of the job. But I’ve seen girls her age wearing far worse, and so I held my tongue as we drove to the venue.

  Other than the parking-lot attendants, a few of the food-concession workers and security guards, I was, by far, the oldest person there. And also the only g
uy in the audience wearing a sport coat. Hey, I had never been to a rap concert before.

  There were three—yes, three—acts, all with only one name each.

  Future.

  Miguel.

  Drake.

  Weren’t any of these guys given a last name?

  Sting, I get.

  Cher, I get.

  But these guys? Get over yourselves, sheesh!

  Someone buy a last name—please!

  My next problem was, why have a concert with three acts doing the exact same thing?

  Okay, maybe they did do slightly different things. Future jumped around a lot and had another DJ mixing beats for him. Miguel jumped around a lot, but also played guitar and ripped his shirt off.

  And, of course, there’s Drake, from the mean streets of . . . Toronto.

  Are there mean streets in Toronto?

  It didn’t take long for the people around us to start noticing that Al Roker, their friendly morning-show weatherman, was at, of all things, a Drake concert. My general rule of thumb when I am out with my kids is to keep my focus on them. I never want to appear to be a jerk and refuse to sign an autograph or take a picture with a fan, but when I am with my family, it’s about my family. Fortunately, Leila was amused by the reaction I was getting, which made it more palatable for all involved. That is, until three white dudes sat in front of us—obviously college students, obviously half drunk, with their pants halfway down their butts, trying to look like they’re black rappers.

  All I could think was “No! Stop it! Stop! You’re not black or rappers! Pull your damn pants up!” as I tried to shield my daughter’s eyes from the awful sight. To make matters worse, one of them turned around and actually tried to hit on Leila and her friends.