Melissa Explains It All: Tales from My Abnormally Normal Life

by Melissa Joan Hart

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  One mixed blessing that came with being a mom for me was how much more attention I got as a celebrity after having kids. The media suddenly cared about what parks I visited, what stroller I used, and whether our bottles were BPA-free—all welcome PR. But they were also obsessed with my pregnancy weight, which was hard on me. I never minded staying trim for work-related reasons before. I’d always kept in shape, though never obsessively. If given the choice between eating a Snickers or slimming down to host America’s Got Talent, the candy bar won out. But after having a child, feeling pressure to immediately battle the bulge felt like an unfair fight.

  Back in 2009, a year after I had Brady, I remember we were sitting down to a Chick-fil-A dinner in Alabama when my publicist called to say People was interested in covering me in a standard “body after baby” story. I wasn’t ready for this photo op but liked having the motivation to lose some weight. I dropped my chicken strip in its secret sauce, agreed to do the shoot, and sucked on mustard packets for the rest of the meal. For the next six weeks I did everything I could to lose weight on the advice of my nutritionist and a trainer. I shed ten pounds in that time and went from 24 percent body fat to 17.5. This was a huge accomplishment for me, and I was all too excited to share it with a reporter. Frustratingly, though, when the magazine printed how much weight I’d lost, they included my peak weight when I was carrying my child, and right next to the main, flattering pic of me in a purple bikini was a smaller, humiliating shot of me shoving chips in my mouth just one month after giving birth. The cover line read, “How I lost 42 pounds!” It’s not like I’d deliberately let myself go as a new mom …

  Another surprise: regular people care how celebrity moms like Tori Spelling, Jessica Alba, and Heidi Klum clothe, diaper, and feed their kids. These women are just a few famous ladies who’ve turned being a mom into a second career, and when Mason was born, the phones rang for me too. I struggled with wanting to both share my life with fans and protect my kids from the prying spotlight. But I also needed to help provide for my family, and I had to be practical. I decided I’d use my celebrity, then, to only endorse products that I really believed in.

  One of these items was Pull-Ups, a diaper intended to help with potty training. In 2008, I agreed to a lucrative deal that also kept me in years of free diapers for my kids. Since my oldest son, Mason, was two and a half at the time, I agreed to blog and speak to the press about potty training him with their product. Potty training seemed like a daunting task to me, as it does for a lot of moms, so I was also excited for the expert advice that came with the gig.

  The problem was, Mason wasn’t really ready to be potty trained. For weeks, I lured him to the bowl with every possible bribe from stickers to Hot Wheels toys, though he refused to do number one or number two on command. I even tried a few tips from the Pull-Ups people, like using different types of potties and taking him to the bathroom every half hour after loading him up on juice and salty snacks, but my son wouldn’t have it. He just didn’t seem to care that I had a job to do!

  After six months of this, I was anxious to be done with diapers and nervous that Pull-Ups might call BS on my parenting skills. Between all the backaches and self-doubt, I realized that something had to give. So I resorted to a dirty trick I’d read about online: I cut a hole in Mason’s diaper. The thinking here was that he’d sit on the potty, his feces would fall out, and Mason would think the poop was too strong for his diaper. (I read that kids have a psychological attachment to their stool and like to keep it close to them.) Until now, when the kid had to go, he’d just hang out around the potty with his Pull-Ups on, but never really sit on it to finish the task. It was so frustrating because he was inches away from the money shot.

  With a hole in his pants, Mason didn’t act any differently when his belly began to rumble. He felt the urge to poop, ran to the bathroom for some privacy, lingered near the loo … and then encountered the game changer. He let it rip, but the hole in his diaper made the turds fall through the opening and all over the bathroom floor. This was not what usually happened, and it seriously weirded Mason out. In a desperate effort to see what was happening behind him, he ran in circles like a dog chasing its tail. He was so confused and startled, screaming and stepping in his own feces, that it broke my heart. I won’t lie—it also made me giggle to myself and wonder if I should record the fiasco to show future girlfriends. Once I calmed Mason down and cleaned him up, I explained that his poop was, in fact, too strong for the diaper. He never used one again, though maybe for the wrong reasons: I literally scared the shit out of him. This tidbit never made my official blog. I didn’t feel like the model celebrity mom that Pull-Ups thought they’d hired.

  No matter how much help or fame I have, I continue to be miles away from perfect. For every proud moment I have where my kids clean their plate during a peaceful dinner, there are twice as many times that I seem to bomb as a parent. Like when I met actor Jesse Tyler Ferguson from Modern Family and his fiancé, Justin, for sushi. My sons were in town, so they joined us, but the twerps whined, hid behind menus, and played with their edamame the whole time. On our way out of the restaurant, we ran into Neil Patrick Harris and his partner, neither of whom I’d met before. I was so smitten with Neil and so exhausted from the kids that I missed it when they ran out the door and into the parking lot. I reluctantly had to end my grown-up conversation.

  My all-time favorite moments are when our family has a public meltdown for everyone to see. Just before Thanksgiving in 2012, Mark and I took the kids to the season opening of Elf on Broadway. Tucker was only eight weeks old at the time, but we drove all three boys ninety minutes into Manhattan for a night that we’d hoped would be memorable (the good kind). Tucker had been great about sleeping in his car seat, even at the movies, and the boys were big fans of the Will Ferrell flick. What could possibly go wrong?

  The answer: everything. We hit a mess of traffic, the kids fell asleep in the car and woke up cranky, they refused to eat their BBQ dinner in Times Square, Tucker pooped up the back of his diaper without a change of clothes … and by the time we hit the play’s red carpet, we were a mess. In one publicity shot taken at the backdrop known as the step-and-repeat, Mason’s literally pulling my hair. When the curtain went up, Tucker cried as soon as the loud music played, and I spent seventy-five minutes rocking and breast-feeding him in the bathroom. This felt mildly inappropriate, but not nearly as pioneering as breast-feeding while getting a pedicure or on the Finding Nemo ride at Disneyland, as I’d done in the past. We left at intermission covered in doody, breast milk, and clingy kids.

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  Though it can feel awkward to open myself up to parenting criticism from the public, it can feel significantly worse coming from women I like to call “Mommiacs”—those horrible ladies who’d dictate your child’s delivery, diet, naptimes, means of discipline, and TV schedule if they could. They’re also fiercely competitive about how perfect they and their children are. I’ve found that there are a lot more Mommiacs in L.A. than there are in suburban Connecticut, which says a lot considering I live in a town that Martha Stewart put on the map. On the left coast, having a conversation in a preschool parking lot felt a lot like being at an audition, with everyone artfully discussing their kids in a way that made them sound so very special and blessed, if they humbly say so themselves. L.A. Mommiacs also took pride in their homemade baby food, no-TV rules, and their progeny’s ability to count to ten in Mandarin by the time they were two.

  When we lived in L.A. with our first son, I’ll admit that I drank the Kool-Aid (organic substitute, that is). I was also a first-time mother and wanted to do everything “right.” Imagine my embarrassment, then, when I suddenly realized in our weekly Gymboree class that Mason was the only kid who didn’t know his colors. Convinced he’d flunk out of college, I made him spend the rest of the week watching Preschool Prep DVDs and naming every color that crossed our path. You’d better believe that by the time he got back to Gymboree, he kne
w every color from navy blue to azure. When my son Brady was born, I was less interested in proving how fabulously talented, smart, and good-looking my kids were and more concerned about holding together my marriage, family, and career. I stuck close to old friends like Kellie and Kimi, and was drawn to women I met at preschool and Gymboree who were always late and frazzled too.

  In Connecticut, however, finding these like-minded mommies was much easier. I still gravitate toward women who are open and honest about parenting struggles. These ladies admit when they forget to pick up their kids from school, don’t mind asking for a play date when they feel overwhelmed, and call each other up to meet for a meal when nobody has the energy to cook. We are a group of mommy misfits, and there are more of us out there than I suspected. It feels good knowing that we can vent about our universal shortcomings over a glass of wine.

  There is one area of parenting where regular moms and Mommiacs are wont to outdo themselves: birthday parties. Just like on a sports team where every child gets a trophy, when it comes to birthday parties, the whole class gets an invite these days. And not only do the kids attend at least one party a week, but they’re incredibly over-the-top affairs. When I was young, my friends and I threw parties in our backyards and refinished basements. We put on a dress, played pin the tail on the donkey, ate homemade cake. On a good year, there was a tiara or piñata.

  Nowadays birthday parties, especially for a first or only child, are as involved as a quinceañera or small wedding—complete with formal invites, giant cakes, and the best face painters and balloon animal artists around. Don’t forget the hand-delivered thank-you notes and gift bags! Backyard events might include a small petting zoo, if the local planetarium is already rented out. Parents also like to book the nearest American Girl store, mostly in major cities, the way our moms reserved bowling alleys and the Ground Round for all-you-can-eat popcorn. This may sound excessive, but I admit I get swept up in the scene. I’ll take any excuse to host a theme party.

  I also like to snap a lot of photos, and when I’m looking at them, I can tell how much energy I had while planning the parties. Mason’s birthday is in the beginning of January, so I coordinate his events when I’m on an entertaining roll. But by the time we get to March for Brady’s big day, I’m so completely spent and partied out that I lean on simpler (okay, lazier) concepts. Mason gets real fire truck rides, aquarium tours, and a private party on the USS Intrepid aircraft carrier in New York City, but for two years in a row, Brady went to an indoor gymnasium with inflatable jumpy toys—our town’s equivalent of a Chuck E. Cheese. I felt so bad about doing this that on Brady’s fifth birthday, I sprung for a group of his friends and their entire families to see a hockey game. After the game, we dug into cake in a private suite upstairs and got high-fives from all the players. Brady felt like the coolest kid in town. Take that, Mommiacs.

  Chapter 18

  ABNORMALLY NORMAL

  Once I hit my thirties, everyone from Kathie Lee to my JetBlue flight attendant became intent on asking me the same burning question: “How did you end up so normal?” Translation: “I can’t believe you’re not totally messed up, like those other ’90s sitcom stars.”

  Yet of all the titles I’ve worked hard for—actor, director, producer, mom, wife—“normal” is the least surprising to me. I get why people think this, since I pick up my own dry cleaning and leave the house without makeup. It’s like, Here’s a star that really is just like us. But now you know my secrets. I am from a sane family, was raised to appreciate hard work and be responsible with money, looked up to grounded role models, and married a guy with strong values. It didn’t hurt either that I grew up in New York instead of Los Angeles, and my career grew at a steady pace without ever reaching Angelina-level fame. Is it really so surprising that I’ve never cooked meth or made out with my dogs? I’m a focused, hardworking wife and mom who’s seen every opportunity she’s had as a real gift—an ordinary person with extraordinary moments.

  But like anyone who’s proud of her achievements, and I am, there’ve been a few times where I’ve thought, Maybe I’m a little more than normal. Maybe people think I’m incredible! But then I get a reality check. This comes mostly from high-brow, A-list, super-trendy crowds who, no matter what you do for a living, can make you somehow feel inadequate. It’s like when my sister and I and some friends tried to skip the incredibly long line at a New York City club by dropping my name to the bouncer, and it actually made him send us to the end of the line. Because of incidents like this one, I shy away from using my own name to get special treatment, though I don’t exactly stop others from pretending they’re my agent or publicist to see what happens. We usually do this while waiting for a table at The Cheesecake Factory or the local barbecue joint that has my head shot hanging on their wall. (I signed it “Nice rack!”) Yes, I know these are low-stakes gambles. I’d really love to throw around my name to get into a Mario Batali restaurant opening or go backstage at the VMAs to meet Linkin Park. Or hey, what about getting into the first-class lounge at the airport when I’m flying coach? That’s some big pimpin’ right there.

  A quick word about flying coach. It’s more of a frugal measure than an effort to appear modest. When our whole family travels somewhere, we don’t see the point in spending money on a seat that’s two inches wider, a shorter bathroom line, and a flight attendant who’ll kiss our bums with free champagne. We put that kind of cash into the boys’ 529 plan. Plus, the kids are already so spoiled with a big, beautiful home, a vacation house, and a playroom full of toys that I want to make sure I try to keep them real in other ways. A curtain that literally divides the classes on a plane could hurt my goal. Of course, there are downsides to traveling in steerage. Like that the airline usually seats large families like ours in the ass of the plane, so while I’m sleeping with my mouth open, fans and others who are standing in line for the bathroom snap pics of me on their iPhones.

  There are some places I refuse to go unless I’m treated as television royalty, like Disneyland. My name might not be able to put us at the front of a line at a New York City nightclub, but during a forty-five-minute wait for the Dumbo ride? I’m VIP all the way. We also get our own tour guide and front-row tickets to any parade, fireworks, or dinner theater in the park. Special rules also come in handy when patrons wearing Mickey Mouse ears and carrying lit-up Tinker Bell wands think I’m a big deal. As soon as one person recognizes me, another will, then another, and before you know it the line to take a picture with me is as long as Goofy’s.

  Because the characters I’ve played over the years are girl-next-door types, people also feel they’ve known me their whole lives, like I’m their best friend. I’m constantly hugged, high-fived, and tapped on my head while hearing, “You’re so short.” That’s a lot of sweaty handshakes and smelly armpits rubbing against my shoulder as we pose for photos. Once in a while if I am at a mall, zoo, or grocery store and stop to take a picture with a fan, it can turn into a good twenty-minute project. This is why I’ll never go on a cruise. Can you imagine being trapped in a tiny cabin for a week with people wanting autographs? Or having someone Instagram a photo of you passed out on a deck chair? I’d rather float on a noodle in the middle of Lake Tahoe alone.

  Seeming normal does have its upsides as an adult. For one, I rarely worry about being followed by anxious fans outside of amusement parks. I’m easily creeped out. The first time I was recognized for being on Clarissa, a teenage girl asked me for my autograph, and it made me uneasy. It felt weird that she “knew” me, yet I’d never met her until she started following me down the street. As the show became more popular and this happened more often, people began to stare and whisper. Were they trying to place where they’d seen my face, or were they making fun of my jeans? Maybe both. I didn’t mind if a fan said she liked my show or thought I was funny, but anything more felt off to me. When I was on Sabrina, all the whispering escalated to loud conversations near and around me, as if I couldn’t hear them because I was still stuck ins
ide their TV screens. This still happens, and on a bad day, I may grumble, “Do they think I’m deaf?”

  Since Melissa & Joey is higher up when you channel surf, some people who stop me now remember me as a twinkle in the eye of their youth. They might remember Clarissa for the clothes or Sabrina for the special effects, but that could be the extent of it. As a result, people approach me tentatively. Almost every day someone will say to me, “Do you know who you look like?” This is the worst possible question someone could ask a celebrity. For years I played along and answered, “No, who?” only to hear “That girl on the witch show!” There really is no reply for this. My choices are limited to sounding like a pompous jackass by saying, “I think you mean Sabrina, and yeah, I did play her. Would you like my autograph?” Or I could give a relaxed “Oh, thanks” and walk away. I usually go with the latter since that lets me get on with running errands or corralling my boys to the car. Any time I’ve made the mistake of definitively announcing, “That’s me!” the conversation plays out like a Three Stooges sketch.

  “No way…” they’ll say.