Spreading out my sweater on the grass, I survey the scene for a second, and wonder if this is home, or the future, or an oasis of simple pleasures I don’t yet understand, or some kind of grape juice-stained, soul-crushing daily drudgery that I will never, ever embrace or even hack. I look for signs, read the mom faces. I give up, deciding I have five more months to figure it out. I return a few calls. I download a meditation app on my iPhone and zone out, which is easier now than ever. Pregnancy hormones are supposed to be making me overwrought and insane, but I started out that way, so perhaps they are having the opposite effect. Being in the second trimester feels like being stoned; I’m forgetful, unmotivated, want to eat strange food combinations and just feel high. First-trimester angst has largely given way to a mind-set not unlike an early Eagles song, peaceful and easy, allowing me to smash my previous meditation record of three and a half minutes.
When I come to, a woman is screaming at an old man in a straw hat and faded plaid shirt. “Don’t talk to these kids. Get out of here. You are disgusting and you should be ashamed of yourself.”
She is pointing at his face and there is a chorus of silent moms behind her, arms crossed, chinos in a bunch, angry, but no one calls 911. I don’t know what the story is with these moms and this old man. I want to help, but I feel detached, like I’m observing the whole thing behind glass in a mom exhibit somewhere.
The old man swivels on the bench, which is oriented toward the playground. He turns sideways, head on his shoulder, and stares right at me. I am way too old for you, pal. Maybe he’s trying to get a gander at my tiny, naked fetus. Creepy. Now I have to worry about registered sex offenders, or I guess it’s really the unregistered sex offenders that should concern me. Maybe this guy is just a geezer who enjoys the bench on a sunny afternoon, I don’t know. I don’t know whose side I’m on, but visiting the park is like taking a college tour when you can’t picture leaving home but know your departure is looming. Some of the park moms seem bored and some seem put-upon and others seem quietly content. Some have nannies with them and some swing their children with one hand and tie their hair back with the other. All of them seem much older and more mature than I am (though let’s face it, most are probably younger), but even the smoothie guy knows that I’m about to be one of them. I may be rubbernecking now, but it won’t be long before I’m living life in the mom lane, which will surely make me lose my mind. Or not. For now, I can just Take It Easy.
There were moms and babies all around before; I just never noticed them. Now, I carefully observe them everywhere I go, stare at a woman struggling to corral her little boy at the grocery store while attaching her infant’s car seat to the top of her cart. The diaper and baby food aisle has always been there, but I’ve never walked down it until now. The bulletin board at the bagel shop has always been covered with ads for Mommy and Me classes and babysitters, but now I take note. It’s not that baby stores are sprouting up at strip malls across the greater Los Angeles area; it’s just that I can finally see what’s always been there.
Being pregnant for the first time is like learning a new word; suddenly you hear it all the time, now that you finally know what it means.
Will I go to this very park with my boy? Stroll him to the smoothie shop so I can show him off to the smoothie man and reassure him the vitamin boost was okay? Will I know how to play with him, seeing as I’ve never pushed a child on a swing in my life, or handled a sippy cup, diaper or onesie? Will I be accepted into this clan of moms? Do babies need sunscreen or just a hat? What if caring for a child is so gratifying that I never want to work again? Or, what if, like my mother, I will take any job I can get to afford paying a nanny to do all of this for me? If there is a continuum of mommy excellence, with Medea on one end and June Cleaver on the other, where will I land? Hopefully, nowhere near Nancy O’Dell, who owes me a punch in the face, though I assume she is pretty close to June Cleaver in overall saintliness.
It’s cooling off, but I stay even after the old guy bails. A mom in a striped oxford and Keds ties the ends of a knit hat under the chin of her wriggly child and produces a box of raisins from somewhere in her giant backpack. Some kid trips and cries. Every kid seems to be named Logan. “Logan, say you’re sorry. Logan, you want your juice box? Logan, I said stop that. Logan, time to go. Logan, I said time to go. Logan, it’s okay, play nice. Logan, do you remember your friend Logan? You met him last week. Logan!!!! Not on the slide! Logan, tell your brother Logan to put on his sweater because we have to go. Logan, you need a nap. Logan, this is what happens when you eat candy. Logan, this is what happens when you don’t go pee before we leave the house. Logan, use your words. Logan, don’t be shy. Logan, don’t run. Logan, say good-bye to Logan, Logan and Logan.”
A quick search on the iPhone reveals that the name Logan is of Scottish and Gaelic origin and means “hollow.” A baby name Web site explains that the name gained momentum in recent years, a fact the site attributes to the character Brooke Logan on The Bold and the Beautiful. Really? A word meaning “hollow” becomes ubiquitous at a Los Angeles park because of a soap opera character who has a brother named Storm and a romantic history with a guy named Ridge (more Googling).
It’s almost dark now, and the moms have scattered and I realize that there is a lot of information I just don’t have yet and a lot of it you can’t get on your iPhone. I toss my spent smoothie in the trash. I stare at the abandoned playground, pull the sleeves of my sweater over my hands. I’m stuck here motionless for a second, with no one to tell me if I’ll ever want to come back, or if I’ll ever belong, or if my mom days at the park will be filled with wonder or Valium. There is no way to know if the future will be like a never-ending, poorly reviewed science fiction movie or if I will enjoy watching the Logans run.
eleven
The Ten Worst Moms in History
At five months pregnant, I think a lot about Ruth Bader Ginsburg. It’s not just that she’s the second woman ever to be appointed to the Supreme Court of the United States, but also because with her prim lace collars, understated pearl earrings and overall vibe of measured thoughtfulness and calm, she seems like a great mom. I wish she were my mom sometimes. I don’t know the woman, but I even kind of wish she could be my child’s mom. Who wouldn’t want to climb up on that robed lap and hear about how Mom volunteered for the ACLU or learned a new language to coauthor a book on judicial procedure in Sweden?
It’s not just Ruth. There are many women, famous and not, who seem much better suited for the job of motherhood.
There are times I feel sorry for my unborn child, because he will have me for a mother, and not someone more calm and together.
Kids need to be reassured that everything is okay, whereas my general opinion is that the sky is falling and everyone hates me. I don’t just sweat the small stuff, I flop sweat it.
I regularly miss ten freeway off-ramps just crafting a paragraph in my head or memorizing lines, after which I come to and panic because I’m horribly lost. I regularly leave the curling iron on until it singes the dresser and any nearby hand towels. So far, I’ve exhibited no patience for learning about birthing, birthing centers or baby development. When my doctor was running half an hour behind, I didn’t think, “Oh, well, I’ll just use this time to quietly reflect on this beautiful transition,” but instead, I approached the receptionist seventeen times to whisper, “ETA?” After that, I sat there angrily flipping the pages of American Cheerleader magazine and rolling my eyes. Kids don’t like eye rollers. They need someone who can go with the flow.
I’m not a leaf in the stream, but a coagulated hunk of hair and soap clogging your drain.
When I think about the fact that my baby is stuck with someone as imperfect as me for his primary female caregiver, I get so down there is nothing to do but focus on women who I think would be or have been way, way worse. It’s astonishing—and a bit sad, frankly—how much compiling an inventory of inferior moms puts me at ease. All I can say is that coming up with this kind of list makes me feel better a
bout my own mom potential. So, with all due respect, thank you, worst moms in history, for lowering the bar.
JOANNA KRAMER—This mother, played by Meryl Streep in the 1979 film Kramer vs. Kramer, represented all that was wrong with ’70s moms. Joanna—icy, selfish and beleaguered—bails on her family, only to return a year and a half later to take back her son and screw up the life he’s finally put together with his pops, played by Dustin Hoffman. She wins little Billy back after a character-assassinating custody battle, but in the end, decides, whoops, sorry, he’s better off with his dad. It was all so harrowing that Justin Henry, who played Billy, got an Oscar nomination, becoming the youngest actor to earn that distinction.
With her chunky leather boots, neck scarves and patrician cheekbones, Joanna brought glamour to maternal abandonment.
“All my life I’ve felt like somebody’s wife or somebody’s mother or somebody’s daughter. Even all the time we were together, I never knew who I was. And that’s why I had to go away. And in California, I think I found myself,” says Joanna, explaining why she left her kid. Can you feel her pain? Boo hoo!
Of course, Joanna Kramer is emblematic of that whole generation of moms, because they always put a premium on “finding themselves.” This was such an important pursuit in the ’70s that lots of moms, like JK, were able to find themselves only by losing their kids. Thus, the second wave of feminism crashed hard on some kids, and you know you’re one if you can’t watch the scene in which Dustin Hoffman pleads for his kid in court without shedding a tear.
When little Billy asks, “When’s Mommy coming back?” it breaks our spirits first broken by our broken homes.
The movie struck such a chord that it cleaned up at the Academy Awards, winning Best Picture and garnering Best Actress and Best Actor awards for Streep and Hoffman.
Now fictional Joanna Kramer, who represents so many cold, bored, motherhood-isn’t-for-me moms, wins this important honor, one of the worst mothers in history.
MRS. WOLF SPIDER—A bad mother might not make her children lunch, but a worse mother might actually make her children lunch. What I mean is, a mama wolf spider is generally harmless, unless you happen to be her baby wolf spider. Once born, the babies congregate on their mother’s stomach, ready to be fed. In some cases, however, they wind up being the mother’s next meal instead. It’s one thing if your mother resented you, or read your diary, or spent all of her time with your alcoholic stepfather, or just never “got” you, but it’s another thing if she decided you were more delicious than adorable.
Zoologists have a tough time explaining filial cannibalism, the act of eating one’s offspring. One theory is that it roots out the weakest of the young, those that are taking too long to mature and would require more parental care. Theoretically, if the wolf spider mom eats the worst of her little wolf spiders, she will have more energy for superior ones.
Talk about pressure.
MARILU HENNER—I feel a bit harsh putting this beloved actress on the list of worst moms. I mean, all she did was write a parenting book, I Refuse to Raise a Brat, and plaster her two sons, Nicholas and Joseph, on the cover. Personally, I would hate to have my mother’s literary career and overall cred depend on my ability to keep my shit together at the grocery store, at recess, at day care and everywhere prying eyes were looking for signs that I was, in fact, a brat.
As if that wasn’t enough, Marilu followed up her brat book by penning Healthy Kids, which warns against the dangers of “dead food” and instructs parents to avoid sugar, chemicals, dairy and anything else a kid might want to eat.
So to review, her kids could not be bratty or chubby, nor could they ever eat a marshmallow in public. Then again, as Marilu writes, “Children must learn that they can’t always get their way.”
That is definitely what they’ll learn in elementary school trying to trade their mung beans and rice for a box of Red Vines. “Their way” will be kale salad with gluten-free dressing eaten with chopsticks at the lonely corner of the playground. All because Mommy already spent the first third of the advance for the second book and needed to immediately expand her field of expertise to child nutrition. Nothing tastes worse than being the house on the block that gives out toothbrushes and lectures on Halloween.
Your food may be “alive,” but with this mom, you’ll wish you weren’t.
Sorry, Elaine Nardo. Loved you on Celebrity Apprentice, and you seem like a nice lady, but you went from exploiting your kids, which I endorse, to setting them up to fail as shining examples of your child-rearing philosophies. Maybe they’ll turn out to be amazingly well-adjusted and wonderful men, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t ruin their childhoods with a combo platter of rigidity and carob.
MEDEA—This one is a gimme. Or more of a takey, as in, takey your own kids’ lives. You gotta go mythological for a mother this venal. In Euripides’ famous play based on the Greek myth, Jason leaves his wife, Medea, for a princess. Medea, in turn, butchers their two sons with a knife. Granted, it sucks to be left for a princess, but killing your kids for revenge means you will always make this list. And when someone like Susan Smith or Andrea Yates kills her kids, your name is going to come up until the end of time.
Here is your challenge, ladies: Find a way of getting revenge without killing the kids.
For example, Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes famously burned football player Andre Rison’s house to the ground. Simple, effective—point made, plenty of headlines, no kids harmed. There are so many ways to open up a can of crazy and make a man regret cheating on you without filicide. By the way, though it’s been done all over the world, I don’t recommend cutting off his penis, strictly on the grounds that it lacks poetry. Or, I should say, the poetry is a bit on the nose and you don’t want your revenge gesture to be as trite as it is grisly.
Medea really got Jason where it hurt, but among other flaws with her historic act, it’s hard to go back and do that one again. You play that hand once, and then what do you do for an encore? Kill his cousins?
Sure, ancient Greece was a rough psychological neighborhood, but Medea managed to stand out even in that crowd.
I bet if she had held off for a few months, she probably would have realized Jason wasn’t even all that. She would have dropped a few pounds from the heartache and popped over to the oracle to scope out some single guys wearing her “skinny” tunic and a new pair of sandals. Maybe she could have found an ancient friend with benefits or a support group of other single Argonaut divorcées.
What do I know, but it seems being a mom means protecting your kids, not making them the ultimate “burn on you.”
DEMI MOORE—It’s not her fault, but no matter how old she gets, Demi Moore is probably going to be hotter than her three beautiful daughters. I file Demi with Naomi Judd, Cybill Shepherd and Christie Brinkley under “painfully pretty moms,” who can’t help but cast a big beautiful shadow over their daughters. And as we all know from Bette Midler, shadows are cold, they are cold dank places to catch eating disorders and while away hours studying one’s pores in a hand mirror.
It pains me to include Demi on this list, because there is so much to love about one of America’s premier MILFs. Aside from her hardscrabble upbringing and alcoholic parents, she struck just the right tone with her baby exploiting when she famously posed nude and seven months pregnant with daughter Scout LaRue, bringing attention not only to herself and her career (good job), but also celebrating pregnant women everywhere as sex symbols.
Yet therein lies the problem. Demi looked hot in her third trimester, she looked hot with a shaved head in G.I. Jane, she looked hot pre-boob job in About Last Night, she looked hot in what should have been an unflattering navy uniform in A Few Good Men. She looked almost impossibly hot at forty in Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle , and from what I can tell from paparazzi photos, when she and Ashton Kutcher frolic on various beaches, she still looks just as hot in her bikini. One day, she may stop being hot, but I can’t imagine that day. I just can’t. Even her voice i
s hot.
We can’t blame her for possessing enduring beauty, but it might be nice if she would dowdy it up a little bit or maybe ease up on the plastic surgery and yoga, rock a St. John’s knit once in a while, allow a wrinkle to take hold. Instead, she refuses to age. She recently credited her youthful appearance to “laughter,” so I have to assume her surgeon is fucking hilarious. Moreover, while other moms are referring to iPods as “machines” and generally losing touch with technology, Demi is flirting with her husband via Twitter, so the entire Twitterverse can enjoy when Ashton sends millions of followers a photo of his wife’s perfect ass. That’s all fine, except his wife is her kids’ mom, and now her exquisiteness is inescapable across multiple media platforms.
Again, I’m sorry. I feel for anyone with a broken childhood and she gets extra points for wearing giant nerdy glasses as a kid and overall coming across like a loving and fiercely protective mother. Still, would I want photos of my mom’s flawless ass seen by the entire world as they inevitably compare me to her? Every single time I hear that Righteous Brothers’ song from Ghost, do I want to remember that Mom will always be a hair (a perfectly straightened and coiffed hair) prettier? The only thing more Unchained than the Melody would be my identity crisis.
TERRIE PETRIE—You may remember her from Dr. Baden’s HBO documentary series Autopsy. This befuddled Canadian mom wrote to Dr. Baden for help. First, her eight-day-old daughter died of SIDS, and later her three-month-old twins also died of SIDS. Only, they didn’t, according to Dr. Baden. After a long investigation, the forensic pathologist concluded that Terrie, who was sleeping with her twins after going out for a few cocktails, managed to roll over both times and smother them. Terrie was disappointed when she got the “cause of death” news, because she was kind of crossing her fingers for “genetic abnormality.”
Let it be said, these are examples not of world-class bad people but of horrifyingly bad mommying. Hence, Terrie makes the grade by soaring to new levels of neglect. I mean, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice—you know what I’m saying? This lady accidentally smothered three kids. Accidents happen and I can’t imagine the guilt and despair, but you would think after the first unfortunate smothering that this gal might buy one of those cosleeper things, or perhaps a freak-in’ crib.
Exploiting My Baby Page 10