Just Between Us

by Mario Lopez

  Isn’t that amazing? Miraculous but true.

  • • •

  Soon after Mazza got pregnant a friend of mine approached me and asked if we would be interested in doing a reality show documenting becoming first-time parents. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share this special time in our lives with cameras following us around, but I thought it was interesting enough to discuss with the mom-to-be.

  And she said, “Well, maybe it could be fun. We can document the entire experience for later on in life. Imagine if you and I had a well-produced documentary of our own births?”

  We both decided it would be like a bunch of home videos. We’ll do it just up until when the baby is born. I said, “Okay, let’s do it. I don’t want to pitch it or anything, but if somebody’s interested or whatever, with no stress and strife, we’ll do it.”

  My friend Chris Abrego has a great working relationship with VH1 and in one phone call to the network we had a show. We didn’t have to do a test pilot. But it may have been the wrong network for us. For one, Mazza and I are not dramatic. We’re not drunk, pulling each other’s hair and running around the house naked chasing each other. I wanted to capture something positive, fun, and funny. I thought the premise was a guy who didn’t expect to be a dad. Ultimately, I thought the show would be cool home videos to show our baby when she grew up and they would have incredible production quality. It wasn’t that bad for me having a film crew around during the nine-month pregnancy and it wasn’t difficult for Mazza—she’s a natural entertainer and performer, and she’s goofy. The production teams working on our show weren’t invasive and all in all it was a wonderful experience.

  It was a great piece of documenting. I’m proud of the way it turned out. The people who saw it loved it. They certainly got their drama at the end because it was very dramatic when I almost missed the birth. I was working as a host for a fight in Vegas—three weeks before the due date—and got the call that Courtney could possibly be going into labor and was being rushed to the hospital. Not wasting a second, I jumped on the last flight out of Vegas and flew back to LA, racing straight to the hospital, where I found Mazza being prepped for an emergency C-section, because she had something called placenta previa.

  Fifteen minutes later, we had a little girl!

  We had made a solemn oath, Mazza and I, that we wouldn’t know the sex of the baby in advance. Like a broken record, I had begged her, “Mazza, you have to promise that we won’t peek at the sex of our child. No matter how tempting. Let’s wait to find out. It’ll be the best surprise ever.”

  So we went old school and kept our baby’s sex a secret. My theory was that if God wanted you to know ahead of time, he would have put a window in a woman’s stomach.

  I walked out of the emergency room that night to greet my friends who were also awaiting the news for a variety of reasons: not only were they supportive, we also all had bets on the gender and the weight of the baby—we’d taken a baby pool. Everyone who’d put in a bet had to guess the gender and the weight. It got up to over twelve hundred dollars. I rushed out and yelled, “It’s a girl!” When the cheering stopped, they all asked, “How much? How much does she weigh?”

  My buddy Tuddy won. Tuddy, whose real name is Rod, is always dressed with a certain style that looks like he could step onto the set of Goodfellas—hence his nickname. Also, because he’s just that cool. We decided we would use Price Is Right rules, and I was one ounce higher than Tuddy. Tuddy won by betting eight pounds, eleven ounces, right on the money.

  My sister, Marissa, picked the name. I initially wanted the name Francesca because I wanted to be able to call her Frankie. I just thought a little girl named Frankie Lopez would be really cool. However, Mazza has a niece named Francesca, so she didn’t want to add another relative with the same name.

  “So what?” I complained. “The other Francesca lives in Chicago—how confusing will that be? It won’t.”

  Mazza argued with me—and she puts a lot of passion behind her point of view, I’ll tell you that—so the compromise was that we kept Francesca as a middle name. We wanted a nice Italian name because my wife is one hundred percent Italian. Obviously, Lopez covers the Spanish part. We thought maybe Sofia or Lucia would make good first names. You know the drill—everyone in the family helps deliberate over what you should call your kid. Hell, they have entire books written with name options. I thought Sofia Lopez had a nice ring to it. I liked the idea of her having a pretty name and at the same time a cool name. I also liked Lucia Lopez, but worried it sounded a bit too much like a fighter. “In this corner, weighing in at eight pounds, eleven ounces, is Lucia Lopez.” It was my sister who mentioned the name Gia. “I’ve always liked the name Gia,” she said.

  And I said, “Yeah, you know what? That is a great name.” I said it out loud to see how it felt: “Gia Francesca Lopez.” It sounded like a beautiful cruise ship. “Sailing aboard the Gia Francesca . . .” I thought Gia Francesca Lopez had a beautiful ring to it. Very Italian and Hispanic, a name that captured both our backgrounds.

  After Gia was born, we had a bit of a scare because the nurse thought something was physically wrong with our little girl. Ironically, some of the nurses and doctors who deliver babies don’t necessarily know much about babies other than the procedure of delivering them. They are trained to do various assessment tests to recognize development concerns, and the possibility that there was something wrong—that is, a disability—was raised. The nurse was speculating and we were bombarded with a deluge of complicated information and surreal possibilities. They had to run a bunch of tests. For two weeks, our life was hell because of an inconclusive speculation by one of the nurses. I know she was just doing her job, but I wish they had a way to do it without making the parents paranoid and scared. She was doing her due diligence, but it was the most stressful two weeks of my life.

  Gia Francesca Lopez did not have any disability—not that we would have adored her any less. Actually, my daughter has advanced physical and verbal skills—my God, you can’t shut her up. She’s beautiful, super smart, a good little girl. As healthy as can be.

  Not surprisingly, she is hilarious and loves to perform. She is really an angel, our firstborn, our Gia Francesca—one of my biggest blessings to date.

  • • •

  So much joy and gratitude flowed in our home after Gia’s birth. But the Catholic guilt started to hang over my head—that nagging voice in my head telling me I needed to be married. Besides, I wanted us all to have the same last name. This reached a head when Mazza told me that she went to go fill one of Gia’s prescriptions and the pharmacist was holding up the process because Courtney Mazza had a different last name than Gia, whose legal name is Gia Francesca Lopez. We had to do something about this, and quick.

  She called me and said, “You know, it kind of made me sad that I had to prove that I was her mom because I had a different last name than our little girl. I had to show my ID but they kept hassling me.”

  My immediate thought was that I too wanted us all to have the same last name. We’re a family and I wanted something tangible to show that we belong together. I loved Mazza, our beautiful daughter, and the life we were building together. But first I had to take myself through the paces.

  What was holding me back? Nothing. It was high time that Mazza and I let go of the boyfriend/girlfriend labels and repackage ourselves into husband and wife. She was the mother of my child and I wanted her to be my wife. It was time to tie the knot. I made up my mind that very moment that I wanted to marry her.

  Instead of proposing right away, I started talking about it generally without making it official. The truth is, I had known she was the one for me since almost the day I met her. Without saying the M-word (marriage) just yet, we also began to talk about having another kid sooner rather than later. We knew how hard it was and that nothing was guaranteed. According to the opinions of several doctors, just because we’d successfully
had Gia didn’t mean we could easily conceive another. We both agreed that if we were going to get married in a ceremony, speaking hypothetically, we didn’t want a pregnant Mazza walking down the aisle.

  The hypotheticals ended during our Christmas vacation following Gia’s birth, when we traveled for the holidays down to Zihuatanejo, Mexico. Remember the final scene in The Shawshank Redemption, where Andy describes his little place on the beach? That was the paradise location I had chosen to finally pop the question. We went for a walk together along the sand. Holding hands, just being quiet together. The sky was blue, the sun shone brightly, and out of nowhere a group of mariachis playing the music of my youth came strolling up, singing and playing as I got down on my knees and asked the question: “Courtney Mazza, will you be my wife?”

  And as I think you know now, she said yes.

  Exactly one year later, on December 18, 2012, we became husband and wife in an incredible winter wedding in Mexico at Casa Aramara. My close friend Michael Schultz, or Schultzy as I like to call him, arranged everything and it was absolutely stunning. Both the ceremony and the reception were held outdoors and the heat was intense. During the emotional ceremony, I couldn’t help glancing over at my parents, who, this time, had big, wide smiles on their faces as they let the tears flow freely. The wedding began around three in the afternoon and went until the wee hours of the morning. Everyone had the time of their lives sweating it out on the massive dance floor we had set up. The tequila and the muggy Mexican night began to take their toll and slowly but surely a tie came off, suit coats were tossed on chairs, men rolled up their sleeves; then a pair of shoes got kicked off, women put their hair up, and before you knew it, everyone in the wedding party had jumped in the pool. Including my good friend Eva Longoria. Weddings can be stressful, but ours was one big party and everyone had a great time. Both Mrs. Lopez and I could not have been happier.

  • • •

  In the midst of planning the wedding festivities, we decided we should get going again on trying to have another child. We breathed a huge sigh of relief when we conceived right away. But a short time later, Mazza and I went on another roller-coaster ride when that pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. All kinds of worries and sadness set in, but we were assured by others that having a miscarriage is much more common than we knew.

  We sat down together on the couch, I held her hand, we looked at each other, and I said, “Let’s not stress about this. I’m glad you’re okay and healthy. Let’s leave it in God’s hands.” I believed that when the time was right Mazza would get pregnant again. We put our focus on Gia and on our happy family of three.

  As time passed and Mazza and I didn’t get pregnant, we again began to think, well, maybe we should talk to doctors; maybe we should see whether something is wrong. All sorts of thoughts swam in our heads: maybe we just got lucky with Gia; maybe we should try fertility treatments or something that would better our chances of having another baby. As soon as we started to explore those options—but before doing any of them—we ended up getting pregnant.

  Maybe all Mazza really needed was a wedding ring. As it turned out, our second child was due almost exactly nine months after we were married!

  During the pregnancy, we went through multiple rounds of different name suggestions for our baby on the way, with options for boy names and girl names. Of course, I thought about how cool it would be to have a boy. I’d grown up in a family with one boy and one girl and we were such a close family unit, I loved that possibility. But either way, I was just as excited as the first time.

  In the event that we did have a boy, I was adamant that he wasn’t going to be circumcised. First of all, in our modern times it’s unnecessary and barbaric, in my opinion. If you’re Jewish and/or it’s part of a traditional religious rite, that’s different. But there is no reason for the medical establishment to promote a procedure that is traumatic. We’re not living in a time when a person bathes once every couple of weeks, creating a toxic environment where a man could be prone to infection in that part of his anatomy. No doctor that I’ve asked believes that circumcision is necessary in our day and age.

  The second reason I felt so strongly was that I’m not circumcised and, frankly, I think it would be confusing to a son. My wife didn’t argue with me about it because, clearly, she could tell how passionate I am about this issue. In a marriage, you have to pick your battles carefully. Here’s a funny little secret for you: Mazza had never seen an uncircumcised penis before she saw mine—she was intrigued, fascinated, all of the above. Another secret, if you don’t know, is that when an uncircumcised penis becomes erect, it looks the same as every other penis.

  My point is, I’m how God made me, and so are all the men from my family and my neighborhood and in our culture. And by the way, you go anywhere in the world outside of this country and most men are like me—not circumcised.

  So that was a nonissue as we awaited the baby’s due date. In searching for a potential name for a boy, we followed the same guidelines we had when naming Gia. The name had to be a Spanish/Italian combination. Mario is an Italian name, but I didn’t want to have a junior—and I’m not a junior, even though people assume that I am because my first and last names are the same as Dad’s. But because I lack the middle name, I’m not a real junior and prefer not to be called one. None of my Jewish friends are juniors; they tell me that the tradition in their culture is to name babies in honor of family members no longer alive or just with the initials of loved ones. If we weren’t going to use Mario, I really liked my grandfather’s name, Luciano, which is also Italian. We considered that, but as Mazza was very close to her late grandfather Domenico, a very Italian name, that got our attention. That’s the sort of name you see on the side of a jar of spaghetti sauce. Maybe it sounded a little too Italian. So I said, “Let’s compromise and go with the name Dominic.” Mazza’s family used to call her grandfather Nico, which I liked. I’ve always liked the name Dominic because it just so happens all the Dominics I’ve ever known were decent guys. Plus, Dominic Lopez sounds cool. Right? Even his initials are cool. “I’m keeping it on the D.L.” We decided not to give him a middle name. Dominic gets no middle name because I didn’t get a middle name. Tradition!

  You’re probably wondering, in case you don’t already know, if all this planning for a boy was for naught? Well, sure enough, at long last Dominic Lopez, our son, burst into this life to great celebration and fanfare from his doting parents and three-year-old big sister and grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins on all the sides of the family. Kids are the miracles of our lives, I truly believe. They make us strive more—to provide, protect, teach, and love them.

  From the moment he got here, Nico has made us laugh. I can’t wait until he’s big enough to learn to wrestle. There’s so much I want to teach him, I’m going to have to start making notes. Of course, I want to teach him to work hard and be a gentleman when he starts showing an interest in girls and to remember that faith and family are there to support him all the way. I have also thought about the fact that when Dominic is only twenty years old, I’m going to be sixty. But I’m going to be a badass sixty and intend to be looking good and having the energy to keep up with him. I’ll probably still be able to kick his ass if he wants to go a few rounds in the ring. I hope I can. By the time he hits thirty or so, though, he just might be able to whup me.

  Courtney and I hit the jackpot with each other and with our two extraordinary children. I want them to have incredible, fulfilling lives—all the good that I had, and some of the experiences that I missed.

  They’re already blessed with two parents who really love, support, and show them—with real actions—how we both feel about them. How would I do things a little differently as a father than my dad did? I love Dad very much, but one thing I will do differently is verbalize my feelings more, especially in telling Gia and Dominic that I love them. My father, who I love and who I know loves me, is a very old-school, macho
tough guy, and he has never said the words “I love you, Mario.”

  Again, I know he loves me more than anything. I’m not trying to be sappy, but he’s just never said those words to me. Does that hurt my feelings? No, because I get it. I know how he is and that he tells me in other ways that he loves me. However, because I think my kids will like hearing it as much as I love saying it, I tell my kids I love them every single day. Three and four times a day sometimes. You can’t love your kids too much. You can’t say “I love you” enough to the people who matter.

  I want my kids to be as well-rounded as possible. Courtney and I will expose them to as many different things as we can the way my mother did for me: the arts, theater, dance, sports, and travel.

  Most important, I want to raise good, quality individuals. People who will benefit society and not be part of the burden that already exist. I want my kids to be respectful, good people, to care about others, to be polite, hard workers, not take anything for granted, know the value of a dollar, and be able to depend on themselves, not anyone else. I know this is a tall list to fill and I know it will require an immense amount of energy from Mazza and myself. The good news is that we have so many like-minded friends and relatives that I’m confident we will raise our kids with a “village worth” of support—and I do believe it takes a village to raise a child.

  If everything keeps going well for me, my children should be financially set, but I want them to have a sense of doing for themselves. My kids are going to have responsibilities and they’re going to have jobs, whether it starts with jobs around the house or jobs I can help them find in my line of work. They’re not going to get a free ride! Remember, I’m still the son of Richard and Elvia Lopez, and laziness will certainly be discouraged.