Raising Trump

by Ivana Trump

  * * *

  IVANKA

  When I had kids of my own, it definitely made me see my mother in a different way. I now recognize how difficult it is to parent well.

  It’s not fun to punish your kids, and it’s often at your own expense. I have had full Sundays ruined having to cancel family outings that we were all excited about in favor of grounding Arabella or Joseph for misbehaving. It’d be easier, and frankly more fun, to just ignore the bad behavior, but you can’t, even if you really want to. It’s particularly hard to say no when you’re exhausted. I’ll come home from work on some days, and I’m so tired, all I want to do is play and cuddle with the kids.

  * * *

  I’m not crazy about Vanessa’s workload with five kids. How much quality time can she or any woman spend with each kid each day? Three was hard enough. I can’t image how she does it with five. She’s juggling all of their schedules, schools, activities, constantly picking up one or the other from this place or that place. If Don and Vanessa said they were having another kid, I’d be shocked. During the campaign, when Don was traveling constantly for eighteen months to support his father, Vanessa dealt with her huge family by herself. Even with help from nannies, it’s still five bedtime stories, five baths, five homework hours. She doesn’t get a break until ten p.m.! Only a woman could deal with it. A man would crumble with half the workload.

  I help out when I can, too. Every week I’m in New York, the kids come to my house, or I go to theirs, at four p.m., the crazy hour. The grandkids call me Glam-Ma or Ivana-Ma. We play, sing and dance, make cookies and candles. I was very strict about giving candy to my children. We didn’t allow sweets in the house. I found out later that whenever my parents came to visit, they would bring a suitcase full of Czech candy for Don, Ivanka, and Eric. Well, now it’s my turn. As a Glam-Ma, it’s my job to spoil my grandchildren, so I give them as much candy and cake as they can eat! Then, after two hours or whenever I’ve had enough, I pass them back to their moms.

  * * *

  IVANKA

  All the tough-love stuff that she applied to us growing up? She either intentionally ignores the rules or has forgotten all about them at this phase of her life. She indulges my kids completely. There is a direct correlation between my kids’ every stomachache and spending time at Glam-Ma’s house. She takes Arabella to get manicures as a special treat, which is a highlight for them both. She buys them T-shirts from all her travels. If you ask my kids if they want to go to Glam-Ma’s, they always say, “Yes!” I think a big draw was Tiger, Mom’s dog. He was like her fourth child. My kids loved hanging out with him. I’m not sure how Tiger felt about it. They tortured him by relentlessly chasing him around.

  * * *

  Last spring, I did something I’ve never done before: attended a bris. Catholic boys are circumcised in the hospital right after birth. Theodore was done when he was eight days old at Jared’s parents’ house by a mohel in front of family and guests. There were prayers first, and the poor kid was crying the whole time. I respect the custom, as uncomfortable as it was to watch. Look, it is what it is. Ivanka and Jared are raising their children in their faith. I applaud them for it, but I far prefer going to the kids’ regular birthday parties.

  • • •

  I’m back on the recitals/school plays/soccer games circuit. Not only do the kids’ schools have Parents’ Day, they also have Grandparents’ Day. Compared to the other grandparents, who are in wheelchairs, I feel like a high school freshman. I don’t belong in the room! I think, looking around at the gray-haired biddies and doddering grandpas. In a few cases, I’m not much older than my grandchildren’s classmates’ fathers.

  * * *

  DON

  When Mom is in town, she comes to Grandparents’ Day at my kids’ school, and there have been many of them! I remember one in particular, where Donnie and Glam-Ma were doing some coloring at a kids’ table. My mother was sitting in one of the little chairs, getting really into her drawing, becoming a kid again before our eyes . . . and the leader of the pack of all the other kids in the class, who were clamoring to sit next to her!

  * * *

  Seeing the decrepit crowd at Grandparents’ Day is a little depressing, to tell you the truth. I feel so much younger than my contemporaries look. (Maybe this is why I’m attracted to men in their thirties and forties. We’re the same age when it comes to energy.) I felt the same way when I went to a college reunion in Prague and saw that so many of my classmates looked withered or bloated, sometimes both! Many of them seemed not to care if they lived or died. They had no reason to get out of bed every day.

  No one can stop time, but aging is a choice you make. I choose to slow the process by eating well, sleeping well, and taking care of myself. I hit the exercise room every morning. Every year, I go skiing in Aspen in December, to St. Moritz in February, and sometimes back to Aspen in April. I frolic in the South of France with young men. I read three papers each morning and book after book, and watch all the TV news. I know what’s going on in the world and am still firmly in control of my businesses and investments. With so much going on, as well as a soccer team’s worth of grandchildren to keep me on my toes, I’m way too busy to give up on life! Nothing is going to slow me down until I’m dead. Maybe not even then.

  • • •

  Family holidays with all the kids are a logistical nightmare. These days, it’s practically impossible, especially with the Secret Service protecting them. (Speaking as a mother and grandmother, I’m very glad that they are.) Don’s family consists of seven people. Ivanka’s is five. Eric and Lara will be three. We have four dogs among us. Counting Babi and me, we’d need a house with fourteen bedrooms to get all of us under one roof.

  Mar-a-Lago is certainly large enough, but the problem (for me anyway) is that it’s Donald and Melania’s house. Although I’m welcome there, it’s a bit weird to hang out at my ex’s mansion with his third wife, their son, and her parents. My mother does it all the time, though, so she can be near her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She doesn’t find it strange in the least for the mother of the first wife to live under the same roof as the third wife.

  I do show up for certain holidays, though, or I’d never get to see all my children in one place. Last Easter, I went to Mar-a-Lago for the day. I have a Mini Cooper for running around in Miami. Palm Beach is only seventy-three miles away, so I decided to drive down for the day. Everything was fine until the gas light went on.

  I pulled over at a highway service area with a McDonald’s and a Shell station, and pulled up to a gas pump. A sign said self-service. I had no freaking clue what to do. I got out, picked up the hose, and opened the little door for the gas tank, but I couldn’t get the gas to start flowing. I was standing there, squeezing the pump, looking like a fool.

  A young guy got out of his weathered Ford pickup next to me, and I said, “Excuse me, can you help me fill up my car, please?”

  He said, “Of course, Ivana. I’ll help you. Give me your credit card.”

  I gave him my card and he did the necessary button pushing to unlock the gas. Success! I filled the tank.

  “You have to go inside the store to get your receipt,” he said.

  That was a disaster, because I forgot to read which pump was mine. The man helped me with that, too. When the ordeal was over, I gave him $100 and said, “Buy yourself a pizza and some wine, and please tell me how to get to I-95 North!”

  Back on the highway, I felt excellent about the full tank of gas and made it to Palm Beach in no time. We had a barbecue lunch by the pool. All the grandkids were swimming and running around. Vanessa was chasing after them as always. Don, Eric, and Donald left to play golf. My mother, Ivanka, Lara, Vanessa, Donald’s sisters, and I sat together chatting for a while.

  I left after lunch and drove south, got turned around by the Miami airport, somehow got lost, and ended up in Brickell, a downtown Miami neighborhood. I saw a police car and asked, “How do I get to South Beach?”

&n
bsp; “Okay, Ivana, this is what you’re going to do . . .” the officer said, and gave a series of directions I forgot two seconds later.

  Half an hour passed, and I was still driving in circles. A woman in a convertible pulled up next to me and I yelled, “Excuse me! Can you help me get to South Beach?”

  She said, “Sure, Ivana. Just follow me!” She led me to the right exit and I made it home.

  Later that night, my phone rang. It was an Italian friend of mine, who said, “Were you in Brickell in a Mini Cooper today at five p.m.?”

  Huh? How did he know that? “Yes.”

  “The woman in the convertible? That was my wife!”

  Miami: just as small a town as New York City. I calculated later that I’d spent as much time in the car driving around lost as I did having quality time with my family! Next time, I’m taking an Uber.

  -27-

  MY WORK HERE IS (ALMOST) DONE

  When Donald and I were married, we went to the US Open tennis tournament in Flushing Meadows, Queens, every September. We had a six-seat box right by the courts, and I rooted for Czech players Ivan Lendl and Martina Navratilova, or whichever player, regardless of country, was winning. Winning was everything. Donald later upgraded to a bigger box right next to the commentators, with butlers and a buffet, big enough to seat fifteen. Sometimes, the kids would come. Often, he gave tickets to employees.

  One time in our early years, Donald and I went to a big finals match and couldn’t find the driver to our limo outside the stadium. Donald said, “Let’s take the subway. I know Queens really well.”

  We walked with the crowd to the subway platform. We boarded the train and a reporter jumped into the car with us just as the doors were closing. The ride between Queens and Manhattan was only about fifteen minutes. The whole time, the reporter took pictures of us. What could we do? There was nowhere to hide, so we just allowed it and laughed it off.

  The next day, the New York Post ran a cover of us on the subway with the headline, “Donald and Ivana Are Just Like Us!”

  I tell this story now, at the end of my book, because writing it has brought to mind all the things I, as a mother, have in common with every parent: dreams of a healthy, happy life for my children, the hope that they’ll achieve something great, the desire to maintain close family bonds. My children feel the same way about their own. The Trumps really are just like everyone else in many ways.

  Then again, we’re obviously not a typical American family—or even a typical wealthy, privileged American family. The Trumps are a breed of their own. I’ve been asking myself what makes us different while writing this book. What qualities set my kids apart? Why are they so often misunderstood or misinterpreted?

  It comes down to three things: unbridled confidence, boundless energy, and fierce determination. My children have been raised to have drive, a hatred for losing, and the stamina to keep pushing until they ultimately win.

  At the same debate where Hillary Clinton raved about my children, Donald gave her a compliment, too. He said, “She doesn’t quit. She doesn’t give up. I respect that. She’s a fighter. I disagree with much of what she’s fighting for . . . but she doesn’t give up, and I consider that to be a very good trait.” He appreciated that quality in her because it’s mirrored in himself, and in his children. What attracted Donald to me all those years ago at Maxwell’s Plum was my energy. I vibrated on a higher level than everyone else, and he could see it. What attracted me to him was his confidence. Together, we made three children who have the best of both of us. And, as I’ve always said, if you can’t be the best, don’t bother.

  With love, I raised them to be tough. Don’s, Ivanka’s, and Eric’s determination was founded in the lessons I taught them, but life circumstances forced them to be strong and resilient. The divorce. The deaths. Living away from home. Emotional turmoil. Some social isolation. Intense pressure to succeed. Living in a public eye that never blinks. Relentless and brutal mockery and ridicule in the media. It’s not going to stop, either.

  The campaign and election were stressful and demanding, and for those long eighteen months, the kids were busy with their father, living on airplanes, going to three cities in a day to meet thousands of people at rallies and events. Meanwhile, their spouses and families were left behind. I didn’t see them that often, either, in 2016. I hoped to spend some time with them during the inauguration weekend, but I had to cut that short and get my mother back home to New York. She needed a few days to relax at my town house before the trip back to Prague for the rest of the winter. Who knows if we’ll ever see her again? She’s ninety-two. It’s her choice to go back and forth between the Czech Republic and America. I can’t stop her, but I do worry about her when we’re apart.

  The kids feel the same way I do about Babi. They’re all very close with her. When she’s in town, she goes with Don and his family to their country house every weekend, and visits Eric and Lara at their house. After Ivanka moved to Washington, Babi saw her less, but she’d previously gone to the Kushners’ home in New Jersey and to Ivanka’s retreat in Bedminster. Babi adores her great-grandchildren and helps take care of them, just like she helped me take care of my kids. During the handful of days between the inauguration and Babi’s return to Prague, all three of the kids came to East Sixty-Fourth Street one by one to have tea, say good-bye, and chat about the future as members of the First Family.

  Eric arrived early. He’d only just learned that Lara was pregnant and we talked about the possibility of his moving to a bigger apartment. FYI: all my kids bought their apartments in New York in Trump buildings with their own money. When Donald gets mad, he says, “Get out of my house!” By using their own money, the kids didn’t have to deal with that.

  While we talked, I felt proud of the man Eric’s become. He’s sweet and strong, very focused and hardworking. I have no doubt that he’ll continue to do well in the Trump Organization and figure out where to go with it next, beyond golf courses and the winery. He’s confident in himself, knows who he is, what he wants to do. He’s come a long way from the boy I had to remind to sit up straight in TV interviews. There’s not a journalist’s question in the world that can knock him off his line, and I can see him doing more and more press as time goes on. Even though he’s the youngest, he’s not the weakest. His big brother used to look after him. His big sister used to take care of him like he was her own little bambino. He doesn’t need their help anymore. He’s grown up to be confident and capable, and he’s doing fantastically well.

  • • •

  Don came next. We talked about the Trump Organization with him, too, and what was going to happen now that Donald and Ivanka were out. No one knows exactly what to expect, and there is some confusion. Don was working hard to smooth over any uncertainty and grow the company. The boys have plenty of work to do just maintaining the existing properties, but they intend to build new ones, too.

  Meanwhile, he’s got five children under ten and an international company to run. When he gets home, the kids are running around, yelling and screaming. I worry about Don and Vanessa’s kids at their schools, and the possibility of the other students giving them a hard time. It’s a lot to deal with, but he has a real talent for being able to let it all go on the weekends. He takes his family to their cottage in the Catskills for fishing and driving around on ATVs. He really needs his family time to unwind.

  Of all the kids, Don took the hardest hits during the campaign and continues to do so. Everything the kids do is being watched and criticized. Eric and Ivanka ignore the jabs from the press. As Eric says, “You have to pick your battles. I think you have to realize that many things don’t matter, and if you’re offended by every little thing, you’re going to live a pretty tough life.” Don worries me because he has the softest heart. When the media goes after his siblings, he’s more outraged on their behalf than they are. But he’s getting better at letting it roll off his back.

  • • •

  Ivanka came last. She talked about her
new house in Kalorama, her plans for the kids, and what she hoped to accomplish. Since that day, she’s been given an official job with security clearance. I worry about how she’s going to do it all: be a mother, wife, and White House staffer; adjust to her new house, new city, and new schools for the kids; and take care of herself, too. My mother is too diplomatic to say something to Ivanka, but behind closed doors, she told me she’s concerned, too. My daughter is thirty-five and has set her mind on this. What Ivanka wants, Ivanka gets. She’s very smart and has always made wise decisions, none wiser than marrying Jared. I think he’s fabulous. I’m not convinced about some of the Orthodox customs, but if Ivanka was willing to give up lobster and bacon, she must really love him.

  Maybe in fifteen years, she could run for president. Who knows? I think it could happen for Jared or Ivanka. We’ll see how they feel after living in Washington for four years. Whatever Ivanka wants to do is fine with me. If she feels strongly about working for change, she’ll do well. She’s intelligent and has been trained to fight hard and face any challenge.

  First Lady? Holds no appeal for me personally.

  First Mother? That could work.

  • • •

  Nowadays, I just stand back and watch my kids go. I don’t interfere or give them advice. And if I did, I’m not sure they’d take it! But I’d try to remind them of the most important lessons I’ve lived by and learned the hard way myself: