Melissa Explains It All: Tales from My Abnormally Normal Life

by Melissa Joan Hart

  Like father, like sons. My boys are very conscientious about their fashion choices. Brady only wants to wear Hulk sneakers and Mason will only wear shirts with sea creatures on them. They both love to accessorize with hats and ties, which I find dashing. I’ll never forget when the kids saw me in that blue-and-white-striped Betsey Johnson tulle dress with fluffy bright pink pumps, a candy necklace, and a Ring Pop for the opening of my candy store, SweetHarts, in L.A. When I emerged from my bedroom dressed like the Sugarplum Fairy, Mason literally gasped.

  “You look perfect,” he said.

  Making Food

  Craft services, catering crews, and studio commissaries prepared most of my meals and snacks for eleven influential years of my life. Oatmeal, breakfast burritos, burgers, chili, salmon—all good, none made by me. On my days off, I ate out with friends, spread peanut butter on bread, or reheated the previous night’s doggie bag. I also dined on English muffin pizzas with jarred Ragú sauce and mozzarella cheese. When Mark and I got engaged, my sister Trisha bought us a nice toaster oven so I could keep my husband happy with the only dish I knew how to make.

  Clearly I never really learned how to cook, and I’m not sure I ever will. On set, the men and women in aprons made it seem so simple. The caterers kept busy in their little truck, making everything from chicken Marsala to silky custard flan. At home, I hate dealing with the massive cleanup, but before I even get there, I despise the prep work. It takes planning to find a recipe, shop for it, and drive off without leaving the bag on the roof of your car. I’m so indecisive. What if I go through all that trouble only to realize I don’t want filet mignon with risotto for dinner, and I’m more in the mood for sea bass with polenta? Not that I’ve ever made either of those dishes with much success. Maybe I could hire a food truck to back up to the house at meal times.

  You’d think I’d learn to cook, given how much I appreciate a delicious meal. Mark and I are foodies and could eat our way across the United States. We have our favorite spots in certain cities and airports, and get excited about visiting each one. On our next trip to Alabama, we plan to fly into the Atlanta airport and drive across the state line so we can hit up Mary Mac’s Tea Room for some cheese grits and cornbread dressing. We look forward to nights out in New York City when we can eat ourselves into a food coma at our favorite steak houses and Mexican restaurants. We are also not above driving forty-five minutes to have breakfast at the nearest Cracker Barrel.

  Eating out with the kids is also easier for me than feeding them at home. Our boys, especially Brady, are picky eaters and expert mess-makers, so it’s nice to give them a range of choices and sneak away from the milk and pasta sauce they always spill on restaurant floors. I think eating out has also developed their young palates. Mason was already a better cook at five than I was at thirty-five. He’s like Mark, who never lets a morning go by without whipping up ricotta pancakes, chicken sausage, cheese grits, bacon biscuits, or chocolate-chip waffles. Even when it’s a recipe that comes from a box or the freezer section of our grocery store, I still clap and thank Mark when he channels Bobby Flay because, frankly, it means I don’t have to.

  I’m in no way complaining. Right after I had Brady, I tried using Jessica Seinfeld’s cookbook to sneak veggies into my children’s favorite dishes. I put a pot of water on the stove to boil, but got so involved in slicing and dicing that I let the water evaporate and the pot burned. Who burns water? I tried again, this time remembering to add the macaroni to the H2O, but I didn’t realize the noodles would expand. I used the wrong size pot too, so the macaroni tumbled onto the floor and what was on the bottom burned. I gave up and made English muffin pizzas.

  Chapter 17

  WHEN MOMMY’S WORLDS COLLIDE

  Until we bought our home in Connecticut, Mark and I had only moved to other cities for our careers. But Westport was entirely our choice and was intended to benefit our growing family and life together. Such a freeing decision, coupled with the fact that our town is straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, made every experience feel heavenly. We immediately invited couples to dinner, said “You bet!” to every play date for the boys, became regulars at the restaurants, and made friends with our neighbors. We were your average suburban family and loving every minute.

  But in the fall of 2009, just three weeks after we moved, I was called back to L.A. to compete on the ninth season of ABC’s Dancing with the Stars. In the past, I might have taken Mark and the kids on a job with me, but now I wanted them to have consistency and community. My sons, especially, needed to sleep in their own beds, stay in school, and make friends since we were new in town. For the first time in my babies’ lives, I had to pick up and temporarily leave them, but not without first bawling my eyes out in the parking lot after dropping them off at school. (Parents I’d never met gave me awkward, comforting hugs. But I took what solace I could get.) The good news was that Mark’s job gave him the flexibility to let me travel for work, and he was good at being Mr. Mom. Mark’s amazing with the kids and an awesome disciplinarian. Though I’m the oldest of eight, and Mark’s the youngest of three, my parenting instincts don’t guide our family. I’m just the sucker who gives in to every sob and chance to spoil the kids with toys and sweet treats. Anyway, Mark also knew Dancing with the Stars was something I’d wanted to do since the show asked me to participate in their first season, although being pregnant with Mason at the time made it impossible. Mark would do what he had to do to cheer me on.

  Despite the show’s demanding rehearsals, I jumped in with both feet. I went to L.A. for five days to meet my partner, Mark Ballas, and begin practicing, and then he came home with me for five weeks where we rehearsed every day in a ballroom at our local YMCA. I was no fly girl, but I felt good about the progress I’d made. I also think watching me work so hard at home made it easier for the kids to see me leave again to shoot the show in L.A. for ten weeks. I promised the boys and myself that if I was going away for so long, I’d give every performance my all. I was ready to work hard, deal with sore muscles, and use plenty of cornstarch to prevent quarter-size blisters. And because I always wanted to be a dancer when I was young, I was curious to see if I still had what it took. I knew the judges would be critical, but I planned to handle their analysis with grace and aplomb. I couldn’t be any worse than Cloris Leachman or Jerry Springer, right?

  My bubble popped pretty fast. I loved the billowy, twinkling costumes, but that’s where the joy ended for me. I’ve never experienced pressure and stress like what I felt from fans and myself during that time, especially since I was on live television. The slightest misstep could end up on mean-spirited blogs and in tweets as soon as it happened. I wasn’t sure I had the head to stay positive and focus on learning complicated moves at the same time.

  When I first heard that British man’s voice announce “Dancing the Viennese waltz, Melissa Joan Hart and her partner, Mark Ballas,” I thought I’d vomit all over my flowing white gown. But I kept it together during my first ninety-second dance to David Cook’s “The Time of My Life.” Throughout the song, I felt like I was gliding on air, and I was so proud that I didn’t miss a one-two-three step. I felt amazing about my performance, my heart pumping with adrenaline.

  I gave Mark an emotionally charged victory hug and cascaded over to the judge’s desk. I couldn’t wait to hear if the judges thought I was the elegant swan I imagined in my head. Um, they didn’t. Bruno Tonioli said I was “prim,” “proper,” and that my dance “lacked a little bit of magic”; Carrie Ann Inaba called my moves “choppy”; and good ol’ Len Goodman said I had “poor footwork.” To be fair, these comments were padded with generic compliments on either end, but all I heard were the insults. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut, seconds after one of the biggest highs of my life.

  Week after week, I found it harder to hang in there, as the judges began to favor certain dancers who weren’t me. My partner, Mark, had already given up on us and began to spend more time playing and composing music, his other hobby
, which cut into our rehearsal time. I became frustrated and upset very quickly, and so did my fans, who were starting to prefer other contestants too. I couldn’t hide my disappointment in the weekly on-camera interviews, which only worked against me since voting viewers at home liked watching their favorite celebrities have upbeat, positive attitudes no matter what. The kicker was that when I got booted in week six, the next morning my boys were supposed to fly in to spend a week with me and watch me dance the quickstep to Mason’s favorite song, “Bear Necessities” from The Jungle Book. I was relieved to be done with DWTS but bummed that I never got a chance to perform for my boys.

  Olympic swimmer Natalie Coughlin, another contestant that season, perfectly summed up our feelings about being eliminated. She said it’s like someone gave us a guitar and taught us how to play it, and then took it away and never let us play the instrument again. And though I was no Ginger to his Fred, Mark and I have stayed friends. At least I’ll always have the Charleston. It was the only dance that earned us two nines and a ten (from Bruno!), and I think I nailed it because the dance allowed me to get into the character of an animated 1920s flapper, much like I would if I were acting in a movie. I even fixed a wardrobe malfunction mid-squat, when my fishnets stuck to a sequin near my crotch and nearly tore my tights off.

  * * *

  The week after I waltzed my way off Dancing with the Stars, I shot a pilot for ABC Family’s Melissa & Joey. It was inspired by our movie My Fake Fiancé, which had aired earlier that year. We did this in front of a live audience, and I was so spooked from my live DWTS experience that I forgot my very first line. Joey messed up on his during the second take, so I didn’t feel as bad. But I had to remind myself, I’ve got this, and that I act for a living, not dance in flouncy costumes in front of experts and perfectionists. After that, I coasted through the filming, and in spring 2010, we started production on the first season of the show. In L.A.

  For the next forty-five weeks, this working mom spent a lot of time away from her family, though I never went longer than two weeks without seeing my boys. Mark and the kids came to California once a month, and every fifth week, I got a week hiatus to go back to Connecticut. Though plenty of travel stressed me out when I was on Clarissa, so much back-and-forth was even more emotionally trying with a family. I felt guilty and sad about missing out on the kids’ daily lives and not spending quality time with Mark. We spoke a few times a day and tried video chatting with the kids, but they didn’t like talking to a computer screen, and Mark got frazzled trying to get them to sit still for long. Instead Mark sent me short videos and photos of the boys going about their lives without me, like testing for their latest belt in karate. I watched them over and over when I was alone in my three-bedroom rental apartment just outside the studio’s gate.

  While Mark was forced to be a single parent in my absence, I filled my spare time with business meetings, sushi dinners, and Thai massages—minus the happy ending. I felt blue a lot but tried to distract myself as best I could. I was only mildly successful, made obvious by the fact that I gained ten pounds and developed adult-onset acne. I actually didn’t realize how depressed I was until we shot our final episode of the season, I flew back to Connecticut, and was beyond elated to see my family. My face cleared right up and I lost the extra pounds without even trying.

  When the producers called to say season two would start shooting in August 2011, I panicked about having to deal with these feelings all over again. I was so grateful for the work because I loved the show and my character—Mel is actually my favorite role to play to date—but that didn’t mitigate the fact that I felt alone and lonely in L.A. And even though our company, Hartbreak, produces Melissa & Joey, which means I worked with my mom every day, life felt incomplete without Mark, Mason, and Brady. But I also suspected that my absence was much harder on me than it was on everyone else, so I convinced myself that I had to make this sacrifice work for our family’s benefit. Better that I quietly suffer than uproot the whole gang every few months to follow me around for a TV show or film shoot.

  I knew that if I was going to stick this show out, I had to tweak the work/life juggle so I could spend more time with my loved ones. I was determined to find another way, even if it was logistically trying. I decided that during season two, I’d fly home on weekends. Almost every Friday night, after we finished shooting the live show from 5 to 10 P.M., I drove like a bat out of hell to LAX airport and boarded an 11:30 P.M. red-eye back to New York’s JFK airport. Once I landed, I’d jump in a car service for the seventy-five-minute drive to Westport and get into town around 9 A.M., just in time for my driver to drop me off at Mason’s soccer game so I could give him a quick hug before he took the field. I’d snuggle with Brady while watching the game, go for lunch with the family after, and doze off on the couch while Mark watched football and the boys played nearby. Sunday after lunch, I’d head back to L.A. and work all week, or if I needed more time with my babies, I’d fly into L.A. very early on Monday morning, arriving just in time for a table read of the week’s script. Most of the time, spending thirty-one hours with my family felt like a triumph. But no matter what our schedules entailed, one ritual was consistent. While waiting to board my plane at JFK, I’d call Mark in tears and say, “As soon as we pay off the mortgage, I’m done with this.”

  I tried to find comfort in the fact that I was “doing it all” like I’d always hoped—that is, being a good mom, wife, and successful career woman. But the harrowing “commute” and long stretches of time away from the family were taking their toll on me. I began to envy other working moms that I knew in town. Their schedules were grueling, but unlike them, I couldn’t ask Mark to adjust the kids’ naptime so they could see me before bed, and if I got home late, I couldn’t peek in on the sleeping angels after a long day. The upside, I told myself, is that I could focus on my job at work, and when I was home, I went into overdrive to be there for the kids. I shuttled them to play dates, doctor’s appointments, practices, and went to parent/teacher conferences with Mark. On weekends, I took the kids to a nearby farm to tap a maple tree for syrup and treated them to blue ice cream with gummy bears and rainbow sprinkles. When I was on hiatus, I picked them up from school, where they ran into my arms for a giant hug and kiss. Would it have been healthier or more fun to work part time, get my nails done after a lunch with girlfriends, and spoil the boys with froyo on a regular basis? Clearly. But that’s not the situation Mark and I had fallen into, so I had to appreciate the time we did have and work my ass off in between.

  After spending a full fourteen months with the kids in 2011 and 2012 when Melissa & Joey was between seasons, I couldn’t imagine keeping this schedule in season three. I’d also just given birth to our third son, Tucker McFadden Wilkerson, on September 18, and couldn’t justify splitting up the family as we’d been doing. Mark and I decided to rent a house in L.A. together, and moved the boys to new schools for the four months we were shooting, at the start of 2013. We packed up the kids and dogs, and shipped my red Mini Cooper to L.A. so we wouldn’t have to drive the Dodge Ram pickup truck with snow tires that I’d brought down from Lake Tahoe. Let’s just say I got turned away from a lot of valets with that monster.

  Having the whole family in L.A. made me feel normal again. I got the kids out the door to school, hit the gym, headed to work, and made the most of family dinners, weekends, and field trips. Even though we adore our life in Connecticut and still consider it home, this was the best arrangement and it came in the nick of time. I’d told myself I could make anything work, but I had to be realistic and cry uncle before my schedule caused real damage to our family or my head.

  With a life like mine, I can’t pretend that Mark and I do it alone, nor would we want to. My Hooter Hider nursing cover goes off to any mom who can balance kids, marriage, home, trips to the vet, laundry, carpooling—and still have time to make a hot meal (microwaves and toaster ovens count), take a quick bath, and catch an episode of Revenge. I have a fantastic housekeeper who
makes my bathroom sparkle and mops my messy kitchen, and landscapers who take care of my yard every week.

  Also, since Brady was born, we’ve always had a nanny to act like a second mother to my boys. We had one wonderful nanny named Canyon who we all loved. She made sure the whole family ate healthy meals, took vitamins, and drank plenty of water. I also liked having another woman around to give me clothing advice for auditions, meetings, and red carpet events. But sometimes Canyon was so good at her job that it made me a little jealous. The boys listened to her more than me, and out of confusion they occasionally slipped and called her “Mommy” and me “Canyon.” She was also a better disciplinarian. If the kids misbehaved, I’d quickly lose my temper and get so frustrated until Canyon calmly stepped in, steered the boys gently by the shoulders to the time-out chair, and had a levelheaded talk with them about what they’d done wrong and how to be better next time. But on the whole, Canyon was patient, fun, and fabulous, and we all loved having her around. Sadly, the voice that crooned my children’s lullabies ultimately caused her to leave us and pursue a singing career. We had such a great experience with our first nanny that it made us feel comfortable with hiring other great girls to help us out.

  I’m not sure why I’m not the Super Mom that other women in my family, like my mom and sister Liz, seem to be. If anything, I’m proof that intuitive parenting skills aren’t inherited traits. Mom and Liz are nurturing, know how to manage their time, and are good at outsmarting their wily little ones. (Liz convinced her kids that frozen peas are a dessert food.) As a working-mom role model, Mom’s always been able to balance her enormous family while running our careers and TV shows at the same time. Maybe managing temperamental networks and 150 employees on set isn’t so different from running our wild family? Regardless, she always made it look simpler than it must have been. Then there’s my sister Liz, whose mothering savvy really shone when she came to visit us in L.A. when Mom had her brain surgery. With her son Jonny in tow, Liz was an emotional rock for me and my siblings, and even found the time and wisdom to get Mason, who was two and a half, to stop using his pacifier in less than an hour. This was a task I did not have the imagination or energy for.