Raising Trump

by Ivana Trump

  This was before cell phones, so I couldn’t just call Donald to come home. I ran next door to my friend and future lawyer Michael Kennedy’s house and said, “Take me to the emergency room!” The traffic on the main streets was horrible, but Michael knew all the back roads and got me to the hospital as soon as possible.

  I stayed in Southampton Hospital for two days until the doctors were sure that I wasn’t going to miscarry. Obviously, Eric survived, and I didn’t do him any damage, but I sure beat myself up about being reckless. It was stupid to ride the buggy that day. I should have known better. I’d put my body through much worse as a skier, and I thought I could handle it. It was a wake-up call, a reminder that my body wasn’t only my own for the next few months.

  Eric knows this story, and he uses it as ammunition when he says I didn’t really want him. I assure him that it’s true the pregnancy wasn’t planned, but when I saw the blood and felt the terror that I might lose him, it made me love him even more, which is absolutely true.

  Becoming a mother changed me in so many ways. I had not only babies to share my life with but also a clear mission for what it would be about: protecting and loving my children the way my parents had protected and loved me. I was responsible for everything they’d learn, for instilling admirable values, and for providing them with the kind of security I didn’t have when I was young. I had all the love in the world. My children would have that, as well as security, comfort, and freedom.

  After Eric’s arrival, our family was complete. My doctor asked if I wanted to do the IUD again.

  I said, “Have you lost your mind?”

  I had my tubes tied instead. I was thirty-five. I’d had three babies in six years and that was enough. The store was closed.

  * * *

  DON

  Birth-order dynamics are interesting to think about. The standard line is that firstborns are reliable achievers, middle kids are extroverted rebels, and last-borns are fun-loving and self-centered. That doesn’t work perfectly for our family. As they say, “Self-praise is no recommendation,” but I have been told that I was always a very protective person. I guess I was very protective of Ivanka, and although Eric was six years younger, he always seemed to be beside me or behind me. He was always, always there! So, as a firstborn, I would say I was maybe reliable. But in some ways, I was the most rebellious of the three of us. Ivanka was a middle child, but I wouldn’t describe her as an extroverted rebel! Perhaps gently extroverted, but rebel in the second-child sense of the word? No. Last-born Eric is fun-loving, yes, but self-centered? Absolutely not. Eric doesn’t have a bad bone in his body.

  * * *

  When Don was an infant, we lived at Olympic Towers in a two-bedroom apartment. Donald and I slept in one room. Don and the Swiss nanny slept in the other. I was terrified of sudden infant death syndrome (we called it “crib death” back then) and would creep into the nursery in the middle of the night to make sure he was still breathing. I was also scared of the strict Swiss nanny. She kept Don on a sleep schedule and if I woke him accidentally, she’d get mad at me and accuse me of not trusting her. But if I didn’t check on my son, I’d lie awake in bed, fretting myself into a state.

  After a month, I got rid of the Swiss nanny and hired Trudy. She was German, young, and very sweet. She knew a lot about babies and children from helping her mother raise her ten brothers and sisters. Trudy stayed with us after we moved again, to the penthouse of 800 Fifth Avenue. One time, I came home to an empty apartment—no Trudy, no Chappy. I searched the place and found one-year-old Don in the bathtub by himself. The nanny had gone outside to walk the dog and left my son waist-deep in hot water. Of course, I freaked out, and screamed at her when she got back. Once she realized what she had done, she apologized, cried, and swore she’d never make that mistake again.

  I’m a big believer in second chances. We all screw up sometimes. I decided to forgive her and let her keep her job. And she did keep her promise never to make that mistake again. But she made an even bigger one.

  Trudy grew up in a huge family with not a lot of money, so her mother used to make a big pot of chicken soup every week. Trudy didn’t know how to cook in smaller amounts, so she’d make her mother’s three-chickens-in-a-pot recipe. She put two-year-old Don on the kitchen counter while she chopped the carrots and onions so she could keep an eye on him. She looked away for a minute, and Don fell off the counter, breaking his leg. We rushed him to the hospital, and the doctors put a plaster cast on his leg from knee to toes. When Donald found out, he was furious.

  And still I didn’t fire her! I thought about it, and Trudy was terrified that I would. But in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. She was a good person, very loving and caring, sweet, if not too smart. She was only human, and mistakes do happen. It could have happened with me, and it might one day. The broken leg wasn’t life threatening. I felt sorry for her. She needed the job and we liked her, so I convinced Donald that she’d learned her lesson (again) and should stay. In hindsight, I probably should have fired her.

  Trudy worked for our family for five years, through Don’s toddlerhood and Ivanka’s infancy. By the time Eric arrived in January 1984, we’d moved into the thirty-thousand-square-foot penthouse on the top three floors of Trump Tower. I’d been in charge of the interiors there, too, from the lobby, with its famous fountain, to every room in our triplex.

  Our last move felt like a fresh start and a natural break. I let Trudy go, and I signed up with another agency to find her replacement. A woman named Bridget Carroll came for an interview. She was Irish, older, a religious Catholic, had been a nanny for John Kennedy Jr., and had excellent recommendations. She struck me as a salt-of-the-earth, good-hearted person . . . and I struck her as a terrifying ogre. I have no idea why she was so scared of me. If I walked down the hall toward her, she’d cower against the wall. Whenever I spoke to her, she stared at her feet. I didn’t care how she felt about me as long as she loved the kids and they loved her. Bridget came into our lives when Ivanka was just starting to walk, and the two of them bonded instantly. My daughter was easy to love. She never cried, never fussed, just sunshine and light, smiles and giggles. Bridget doted on her, as Donald and I did, too.

  Since Bridget couldn’t work, and shouldn’t have worked, seven days a week, we called the agency back and they sent us Dorothy Curry to share the responsibilities. Dorothy was also Irish and religious, much younger than Bridget, with a sparkle in her eye and plenty of nervous energy. Eric became “her” baby, and they formed a special relationship and a closeness that they still share to this day. (Once the kids had all grown up, Dorothy transitioned to a new role in our family as my personal assistant. She continues to work for me to this day, thirty-two years after we first met.)

  Bridget would work for two days, and then Dorothy took over for two. When they were “on,” they slept in a lovely room off the kitchen on the kids’ floor in the triplex. When they were “off,” they went back to their own apartments. The arrangement worked out beautifully. We were finally settled in our permanent home, with the support of two wonderful women who became like family. For me, the move into Trump Tower and hiring Bridget and Dorothy were like putting the final puzzle pieces in place, allowing the big picture of my new life as a wife, mother, and businesswoman to become clear.

  * * *

  ERIC

  Dorothy is my second mother. She’s raised me since I was a baby, and we are incredibly close—inseparable. I love her immensely. She’s a big, and very important, part of our family.

  Dorothy is originally from Ireland, and during the summer she would take me there for a week or two. She is from Belturbet, a little town in County Cavan. Dorothy has a number of sisters, and we stayed at their houses. Even when Dorothy wasn’t working, she was still with me. We traveled all over Ireland and saw all the castles. Northern Ireland had a rough political climate back then. While traveling, we had to pass through security checkpoints. Men with machine guns would demand to see our passport
s, but I always felt safe with Dorothy.

  Obviously, a lot’s changed. A couple of years ago, the Trump Organization bought a hotel on the west coast of Ireland called Doonbeg, about forty minutes outside Shannon. It’s a beautiful place that brings me back to Dorothy in a certain way. I may not be Irish by blood, but I feel like part of me is Irish in my upbringing because of her presence.

  * * *

  PART THREE

  BRINGING UP TRUMP

  -7-

  SNAPSHOT

  When I was seventeen, I slept in a crawl space in our small house in Zlín. By the time I was thirty-five, I lived in a penthouse in Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue. There were many steps and stages along the way: my student life in Prague and modest house in Montreal. Donald’s and my first three apartments in New York were fine but not what anyone would call extravagant. The change in my life circumstances took place over fifteen years, and it was a gradual rise. I didn’t wake up rich. I worked extremely hard throughout my life and became wealthy because of my work ethic and energy. That, and because my partner in business and life had the same ambition that I did. I never set out to be wealthy or to marry a rich man. When I met Donald, he wasn’t superrich, but he had big dreams. We both worked nonstop to realize them, and moving into Trump Tower with our three babies felt like the culmination of that dream. Along the way, there wasn’t a lot of time to reflect on how far we’d come. I knew I was incredibly fortunate to have a wonderful husband, healthy children, and a career that suited me perfectly. Living in a beautiful home was icing on the cake.

  So what was it like to live in Trump Tower? Let me paint the picture.

  A SNAPSHOT OF OUR HOME

  Without question, we lived in the lap of luxury. I pulled out all the stops while decorating the Trump Tower triplex. If something could be leafed in gold or upholstered with damask, it was. Italian marble? I bought a mountain’s worth. Cream-and-rust-colored onyx floors and a thousand-crystal chandelier? Why not? It was the eighties, and my aesthetic at the time was over-the-top glitz, glamour, and drama. My goal was to shock and amaze my guests when they walked into the space.

  The sixty-eighth floor was known as “the kids’ floor,” with their bedrooms, an entertainment room, the nannies’ room, a kitchen, and two suites, one for my parents and one for guests. I let the kids decorate their own spaces. I had final approval—I wouldn’t allow posters of creepy rockers or half-naked supermodels on the walls—but the kids were otherwise free to do what they wanted. Eric chose yellow and white walls, with shelves full of his toys and books. Ivanka’s room was lilac and mint green with a wrought-iron bed and frilly canopy, Bon Jovi and Beverly Hills, 90210 posters on the walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Donny chose very simple, nautical colors of blue and white, and covered his walls with movie, sports, and band posters. I don’t think Don really cared at all about his room—it was just the place where he slept and dressed and waited to go back outside.

  The entertainment room was filled with toys, rocking horses, Matchbox cars, Tonka trucks, puzzles and games, books, and enormous bins full of Lincoln Logs and Legos. The boys and Ivanka made forts with couch cushions and blankets. Although she had dozens of dolls to choose from, Ivanka wasn’t that interested in “girl” toys. She preferred to do whatever her brothers were up to, and if that meant building racetracks out of blocks for the Matchbox cars, that’s what she did. Even though he was the oldest, Don didn’t boss his siblings around. Since they liked the same toys, they played happily as a unit at whatever game was decided on for that afternoon. They had a big-screen TV and a VHS player. Ivanka’s all-time favorite movie was The Sound of Music. She played that video ten times a week, sang along, and danced on the furniture. Don preferred PG-rated action shows like The A-Team and MacGyver. When Eric was little, he loved Pee-wee’s Playhouse. You could hear him laughing from the other side of the floor.

  I had a humidity-and-temperature-controlled fur vault for my dozens of designer mink, sable, and chinchilla coats. The kids would break into it and pull my furs off the hangers to use in their games. I remember coming home once and finding my furs turned into tee-pees in the entertainment room. Chappy raided the fur closet, too, and turned my chinchilla into the world’s most expensive dog bed.

  A SNAPSHOT OF THE ROUTINE

  At home, our lives were planned on an intentional routine. I was our family’s supreme leader and set rules that no one ever questioned. Our weekdays ran like clockwork. It’s possible the kids hankered for spontaneity in their heart of hearts, but they didn’t dare complain to me about their rigid schedule. It was the law, like the Constitution or the Ten Commandments, and the kids knew never to break it.

  At six thirty a.m., we woke up and got dressed. At seven a.m., we had a breakfast of cereal, fruit, and yogurt, and we always ate together. Then the nannies or I would take the kids down to the twenty-eighth floor to visit Donald at the Trump Organization office for a morning hello before walking them to their schools nearby. I went to work and I would pick them up at school if possible (if I couldn’t make it, the nannies did). Then we’d take them to Central Park to run around for an hour or two to get sun and fresh air, or they’d go with the nannies to after-school activities. Around four thirty p.m., the kids would stop again in Donald’s office to play on the carpet with the toys he kept there for them.

  At five p.m., everyone (except Donald) was back home for the kids’ dinner hour. I’d sit with my children while they ate, and we’d talk about their day. I asked typical mom questions, like “What did you learn today?” or, to Ivanka, “How was ballet?” Then they’d do their homework, and if they had time left over, the kids were allowed to watch TV or play games before a bath, a story, and bed at seven p.m. There was no discussion about bedtime. It might seem early, but they were exhausted. I grew up on an early-bird schedule and managed to pack a lot of activity into my day, too. After the kids were in bed for the night, Donald and I would go out for dinner, or to a club or an event (schmoozing was a big part of the real estate business; for me, it was an extension of the workday). Sometimes, Donald and I stayed in to watch Dynasty and Dallas.

  The fact that every minute of their lives was planned gave me a sense of comfort and security. I could be walking through a construction site or in a meeting with my vice presidents, look down at my watch, and know exactly what each of my children was doing at that second. It also allowed me to spend as much time with them as possible in the mornings and evenings. It was for their benefit, too. Because the kids were kept busy and on a tight schedule, they didn’t have time to get into trouble.

  The weekends were more relaxed. The official start to every weekend was when the kids burst into our bedroom, screaming, to take flying leaps onto our bed. It was enormous, an Alaska king that could have qualified for its own zip code. I know it was a crazy extravagance, but I loved that bed! The kids considered it their personal bouncy castle. Chappy got riled up from all the excitement, barking and wagging his tail. I’d get out of bed and take Chappy up the staircase to the roof for a quick pee-pee. The roof was bordered on all sides by a high wall, so it was safe up there for him and the kids to get some fresh air if they didn’t want to go all the way down to the street. Weekends were for family time, usually spent in the country. It was our chance to let the kids go crazy on bikes or just roam around the yard. If we had outings planned, we were always on time, but I tried to keep the weekend schedule a bit loose. Everyone needs unstructured time to let the imagination run wild.

  Regardless of the day of the week, the last thing the kids did before sleep was to say their prayers. I didn’t have organized religion growing up because of the communists, though my parents were Catholics and, as a family, we prayed secretly at home. When I first came to America, Donald and I went to midnight Mass at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral (for me) and Protestant Sunday services at Marble Collegiate (for him). I wanted my children to have a grounding in faith. I didn’t know the prayers in English, so the nannies, devote
d Irish Catholics, taught the kids what to say. Bridget was a three-times-a-week churchgoer and knew all the words by heart. Every night, Bridget and Dorothy would kneel by the side of the kids’ beds and say the lines for them to repeat. I can’t say that religion plays a large role in my life now, but I’m glad the children grew up talking to God and having something to believe in.

  A SNAPSHOT OF THEIR STYLE

  When they weren’t in school uniforms, the kids dressed in whatever they liked on Saturdays and Sundays, which was usually jeans, T-shirts, and Adidas sneakers. Style wasn’t a major concern when they were young. Ivanka liked velvet-and-lace party dresses and patent-leather Mary Janes, but the boys couldn’t have cared less what they wore.

  I was the hairstylist for the family. Once a month, when the boys’ hair got too shaggy, I’d make Don and Eric sit down on a chair, tie a towel around their necks, place a figurative bowl on their heads, and trim the strands that peeked out from under it. It took all of five minutes, which was, for them, an eternity of sitting still. As soon as I said, “Okay, you’re done,” they’d run around the room with the towel on like a Superman cape while I screamed at them not to get the hair trimmings all over the house.

  Ivanka’s hair got the at-home treatment, too, but she was spared the bowl. I just trimmed the dead ends. Although a Dorothy Hamill wedge would have been cute on her, she and I liked her hair princess length. I have fond memories of my mother brushing and braiding my hair as a little girl, and I hope Ivanka remembers my doing that for her. At parties and for photos, I pulled her hair away from her face with ribbons and bows to match her white ruffled Bonpoint dresses. I loved indulging her in the “girly” things we both loved so much.