Leggy Blonde: A Memoir

by Aviva Drescher

  That was the last monthly payment I received. His family was sick to death of me after three years of divorce court and four years of family court. I bet they were also sick of Harry. They offered me a lump sum of child support for Harrison that was supposed to last until his emancipation at age twenty-one. Basically, they were going to pay me to go away. The amount was much lower than what I was already legally owed. They wanted to cut the settlement amount by less than half. The Dubins were extraordinarily wealthy people. They could easily afford to honor Harry’s child support obligations. I never understood why everyone expected Reid to pick up the tab.

  Harrison was their only grandson, the only one who would take their name. He was a bright, handsome, funny, polite, big-hearted child. I honestly had no idea why they acted this way. I am sure it was not personal against Harrison. Sometimes anger clouds people’s actions. It seems as though Harrison’s best interests got lost temporarily by his grandparents.

  The situation was so dysfunctional that taking the lump sum, even at a huge loss, might be the wisest decision. I had a family to think about. Reid and I were exhausted from this battle. We decided that life was too short to spend another day in court. It was enough money to ensure part of my son’s future. But still, t wasn’t so easy to walk away.

  The one thing the Dubins were paying all along was Harrison’s tuition. In May 2012, right before my first season of The Real Housewives of New York City was to air, Harrison’s school called. The finance person said, “Your ex-husband signed the school contract last year, but he hasn’t paid a penny. You have to pay last year’s tuition and next year’s tuition in full if you want to keep Harrison in school.” Harry, of course, hadn’t told me that the tuition wasn’t paid.

  We owed the school around eighty thousand dollars. I didn’t want to ask Reid for more money. He had already been footing the bill for years. I thought about sending Harrison to public school. But our other kids were in private; it felt wrong. Reid kept telling me that he would take care of it. I waited to see if the Dubins would cough up the tuition, as they always did for all their grandchildren. Letters between lawyers flew like grenades. Somehow or other, my battles with Harry got picked up by the New York Post, which ran two separate articles about them over the summer.

  And then my season on Real Housewives started airing. Sonja Morgan knew I’d been married to Harry, and she went on and on about what a great guy he was, how much fun, what a great lover, and so on. Everyone was wild about Harry, as long as they didn’t depend on him for child support! I sat there, and listened to it all, agreeing and smiling.

  “Oh, yes. Harry is just awesome,” I said and smiled, biting my cheek, during filming.

  I never complained about the pressure he put on me and my family, or the lawsuits, or the unpaid bills. I never bad-mouthed Harry on camera. I simply would not wave my dirty laundry about my son’s father on national TV. Before I shot my first scene, I drew that line. No matter what anyone said about Harry, I would smile and nod. That was the deal I made with myself, and I kept it. Off camera, I told the girls the truth and stuff leaked to the press.

  I wavered about taking the lump sum, or fighting to uphold the settlement we already had. The critical moment came in the winter of 2013. Harrison Googled himself and found those New York Post articles. He had no idea that any of this had been going on for years. Reid, Harry, and I had shielded him from the legal issues completely. When he found out, he got very upset. I’d become a public person. I realized I had to change my tactics. To fight for my son after being on a national television show, I had to keep our private business out of the press.

  I took the lump sum. As soon as I decided to take it, I felt lighter and happier. Harry will always be a part of our lives, but given his behavior, it’s hard to be a full member of the Harry-is-a-Great-Guy fan club. Harry has a kind nature, but his weaknesses hurt others. They’ve hurt us. I have chosen to overlook it for the greater good.

  • • •

  On another front, Jane dropped another legal bomb on us, too! It all started over a disagreement about whether or not Veronica should take fish oil supplements. I was obsessed with vitamins, and gave fish oil to all my children. (What? Vitamins for children? Insane!) Among other things, Jane was against it. When she objected, I stopped giving Veronica the pills. But Jane had to make a federal case about it, and used it as a starting point for another lawsuit.

  Only a week after Jane gave birth to her second baby with her second husband, her lawyers delivered a hundred-page lawsuit to us. She was suing Reid for full custody of Veronica and, of course, more money. This odious document was punctuated by vicious lies. She produced every single email we’d ever exchanged—hundreds of earth-shattering gems like, “Veronica has a play date today with Samantha. Okay?”—as examples of my being an “overinvolved stepmother.” My active stepparenting of Veronica, she claimed, made it impossible for her to coparent with Reid.

  There were fifty pages about how “overinvolved” I was in Veronica’s life, listing all the things I did for the girl, like take her to doctor’s appointments, help her with homework, make her food, buy her nice clothes, throw her birthday parties, and other horrible abuses of power.

  Reid and I read the pages. They cited emails and examples dating from when Veronica was a baby. “She’s been plotting this lawsuit for years,” I said. “Why file it now?”

  “She wants to move to Long Island with her husband and babies,” Reid explained. She had already moved to Queens, causing Veronica a longer commute to school. The longer distance would mean a huge disruption in Veronica’s routine—and Jane’s. If she had full custody, she wouldn’t have to schlepp her daughter to school and our place and back. In the original agreement, both parties agreed to stay in Manhattan.

  Reid was livid. I’d never seen him as angry as he was when we had to go to court, again, over this ridiculous fiction. She should have peddled it in Hollywood. She would have had a better reception than in Manhattan family court.

  By luck of the draw, the judge was the same man who handled my child support case with Harry. When he saw Reid walk into the courtroom, he said, “You, again?” Quickly, he pieced the whole saga together. He already knew Reid supported Harrison during Harry’s delinquent years. He knew that we had other children as well, and that Reid was a stand-up guy.

  The judge listened to the arguments. He read Jane’s papers, and our defense. Then he called Reid and Jane back to court for his decision. He said, “I have people walking in and out of this room every day. I have never seen anyone bend over backward to try to keep things as amicable as the Dreschers. Jane, you should consider yourself lucky that Veronica’s stepmother is involved and cares and keeps the lines of communication open between you. You know what? You folks co-parent better than 95 percent of the people who come through my courtroom. This case seems like a lot of nonsense and I don’t appreciate the lying. This case is not for court. Dismissed.”

  The judge openly called her a liar in court.

  Her case was thrown out.

  Reid was pissed off over this entire fiasco and ready to go into assassin mode. He would not speak to Jane directly, and hadn’t for the two years since this last lawsuit. The court assigned them a mediator. To this day, they have monthly meetings with the mediator to discuss Veronica. Brilliant or absurd? A little of both. On the bright side, they have not been in court since, but it is a bit odd to continue seeing your ex-spouse monthly in a therapist’s office. If you wanted to fight in an expensive counselor’s office with a man, you might as well be married to him! Of course, it was healthy to check in about coparenting your child. They both love Veronica and want the best for her. But her insisting on monthly sessions? To me, that seems like holding on to the past. I think it would be healthier for Jane to let go of Reid. However, I could understand how it would be hard to get over him. I can understand her still hanging on. I am not sure how her husband feels about it though.

  Although we won, I felt defeated.
I’d lost years in court. None of those battles should have been waged. Now that it was over, the weight of what we’d been through hit me full force. I’d fought for my son, and been blasted. As a stepmother, I tried to be as close and involved as a real mom, and we got sued for it. At the peak of frustration, I thought I should back off from Veronica so Jane wouldn’t snap. But I’d known Veronica since she was a baby. I loved this bright, sweet, beautiful child. How could I back off emotionally? Well, I couldn’t.

  How to deal with irrational people? How to absorb their terrible behavior? Over the years, Jane systematically tried to destroy Reid’s sacred relationships. A son and his father. A father and his daughter. A husband and his wife. The real victim in all of this was Veronica, of course. The girl could have two sets of loving parents who worked in concert to raise a happy, healthy child. But that would be a perfect world.

  In the real world, we’ve had to walk on eggshells, which wasn’t so easy for me to do. I should add lawsuits to my list of anxieties and phobias. I did live in fear of the next crisis. If Veronica and Harrison had a minor sibling spat, like in every family, I worried that Veronica would run to her mom about it. Jane would freak out and demand hours of mediation. In all these years, Jane has gained nothing except huge legal bills and a daughter who knows the two homes are not at all in sync. But those facts never stopped her.

  • CHAPTER FOURTEEN •

  Our Modern Family

  As parents, our destiny seems to be to screw up the kids, to pass neuroses onto our own kids. You know all about my neuroses, but I still came out okay. And my brother Andre came out fantastic. He’s a great uncle—amazing with children—and a really excellent guy. I think he looks like Marky Mark and he has a kind and protective personality. He has a cool job with a WiFi company in Miami and is not a party boy or a model chaser and he is single. Ladies, grab him! He is one of the last few great ones out there! He has always been there for me, even when we were children. When I was scared at night, I would hobble over to his room and pull out the trundle to sleep near him. (Okay, that was every night.) As we got older he loved the men in my life who were good to me and wanted to kill those who were not. A smart man, he refused to go on Real Housewives last season.

  Meanwhile, I’m probably screwing up my kids in ways I can and can’t imagine.

  Fade in:

  Interior: Therapist’s Office—Day

  It’s the year 2043. Thirty-two-year-old Sienna is on the couch.

  SIENNA: . . . and then my mother went on Real Housewives of New York City!

  THERAPIST: Oh my god! You poor kid!

  SIENNA: Yes, I know.

  THERAPIST: Hey, did you ever meet Ramona? She was always my favorite.

  In Oscar Wilde’s play A Woman of No Importance (which would have been the title of this book if it hadn’t already been taken), Lord Illingworth tells Mrs. Arbuthnot, “Children begin by loving their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.” For my own, I hope they won’t judge me too harshly, and will eventually, with years of therapy, forgive me. Until then, I’m trying to immerse them in normalcy and continue blocking them from watching Bravo.

  I don’t believe I have so much to do with my children’s outcomes. They come out the way they come out. I can encourage their strengths and try to improve their weaknesses. I teach them to be curious, kind, and polite, and to celebrate differences. Besides that, I do my best to raise them to be good people and the rest is up to them.

  As someone who grew up in a dysfunctional family (really, is there any other kind?), my refuge is in the commonplace. As my dad’s eccentricities became ever more odd (Sai Baba, anyone?) and my mom’s warmth disintegrated into alcoholic despair, I was nostalgic for the comfort of tedium. I was happiest growing up when I felt average. I’m glad to report that our modern blended family is painfully normal and boring. Or so I think. I might be wrong. We did have some not-so-boring moments, from the kids’ very inceptions . . .

  I was in misery every minute of my three pregnancies. It was like my body had been invaded by a foreign enemy. Because of my drug phobia, I couldn’t take Advil for a headache or Pepto-Bismol for a stomachache. I just gritted my teeth and got through it. The only part I truly loved was the kicking and squirming, feeling the life inside of me. That was so incredible, it mitigated the nausea a little.

  Being a monoped was an added pregnancy complication. When the center of my gravity changed, it threw off my balance with my prosthesis. I had to readjust my gait. Also, weight gain made it harder to put on the prosthesis. Compared to pregnancy though, labor and delivery were easy peasy for me—the first two, anyway. My threshold for pain might be higher than most. I found birthing to be a civilized process. I had an epidural, waited to dilate, and then pushed my babies out in five minutes. I could have shot them across the room (strong muscles). During my first birth with Harrison, I took the prosthesis off. With Hudson and Sienna, I kept it on. My doctor suggested it, because it was easier to keep myself in the stirrups and bear down.

  Reid does not faint at the sight of blood. He was an active participant in the births of Hudson and Sienna. He would have snapped on gloves and taken over for the doctor if need be. I’m not fond of squeamish people. We are all made up of blood and guts. We all poop and pee and other gross stuff. Reid proved himself to be unafraid of gore and gunk during my labors. He was there for me, in the room and at my side. The type of guy you want to marry, in my opinion, is the one who can watch the baby come out of the vagina and still want to go back there. A real man, like Reid, can deal with it.

  After two boys, I really wanted a girl, and so did Reid. We did some research. Gender of the baby was determined by the sperm, which supplied either an X or a Y chromosome. The mother’s egg always contained an X chromosome. It was possible to separate the X from the Y sperm, and implant the chosen flavor, as it were, into the uterus during ovulation. So we started looking for a doctor who would “spin sperm.” It wasn’t an expensive procedure, only a thousand dollars. It might seem weird sciencey, but if I could tip the odds in favor of a girl, I was willing to try.

  At the time, my friend’s mother was dying of cancer in Palm Beach. I was up all night thinking about her one night, and unable to sleep. Reid couldn’t sleep with my tossing and turning. So what did we do wide awake at 3 a.m.?

  I got pregnant that night. No sperm spinning for us. When we found out, I looked at Reid and jokingly said, “If this is a boy, I am going to kill you.” Boy or girl, at thirty-nine, I knew it was my last pregnancy. At the seventeen-week sonogram, we learned we were having a girl. And Reid’s life was saved.

  It was the end of summer 2010. Reid and I were watching Californication in bed. Sienna (we had the name picked out already) was going crazy inside me. I turned to Reid and said, “She’s kicking like a black belt. I’m surprised my water isn’t—”

  Pop. I felt the trickle. I clicked on my leg and ran to the bathroom. Yup, my water broke. I called our doctor. He said, “Stay put and wait a few hours for the contractions to get closer together. If anything else happens, go to the hospital.”

  Like I needed the invitation? “Got it,” I said. My previous labors took six or seven hours. With Hudson, I had to be induced. So I figured I had plenty of time at home. We settled in, assuming we’d have at least until four or five in the morning.

  Half an hour later, my contractions came on strong, like nothing I’d felt before with either of my sons. I called the doctor back. “We’re going in,” I said.

  Reid and I raced to New York–Presbyterian hospital in a cab. I was writhing in pain and gulping for air in the backseat. When we arrived at the prebirthing triage area, I was in agony. It was happening way too fast. I started worrying that something was wrong. I got in a birthing room by 1 a.m. A nurse examined me. “You’re fully dilated,” she said.

  I was already in full labor, an hour after my first cramp.

  The anesthesiologist came in with his cart.

 
“Are you ready for an epidural?” he asked.

  “Yes! But you can’t give me Fentanyl. I’m allergic to it.” I wasn’t really allergic. But I hated that drug. It is a derivative of morphine. I had it during my labor with Hudson, and felt that horrible floating sensation I’ve feared since I was six.

  We went back and forth about it. The anesthesiologist complained he’d have to go to the hospital pharmacy to get something else.

  “So do it!” I yelled. He was giving me a hard time when I was in full labor? I might’ve been a little rude to him. But finally, he got it in his head that I knew what I was talking about, and prepared another needle.

  Five minutes after getting my epidural, the doctor walked in and said, “Okay, Aviva. Time to deliver.”

  “The epidural hasn’t kicked in yet,” I said.

  He frowned at me. “You’re crowning. You have to start pushing now. You can do it. If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” I said.

  I did. During my first two births, I was numb. That was why pushing was so easy. This time, I felt the whole thing. It was like shitting out a television set. Fortunately, it happened really fast. Sienna was born by 4 a.m. She practically skipped down my leg at birth. We brought our baby girl home the next day, and our family was complete. Two boys, two girls. At the time of this writing, Harrison is eleven, Veronica, ten, Hudson, five, and Sienna is still my baby at two.

  I breast-fed each baby for about a year. I made so much milk, I could have sold some of it and had bottles to spare. I only stopped with Hudson when he had enough teeth to bite my nipple. Sienna still gets some breast milk. I was recently stopped at the airport with a cooler of it. When the TSA says no more than four ounces of any liquid, they mean it.

  The kids are all so different, which never ceases to amaze me. Harrison is built like a football player, but he’s gentle at heart, charismatic and social. Veronica is sweet-natured and so smart. She’s an avid reader and is already much smarter than me. Hudson is a replica of Reid. If you know Reid, you know Hudson. He’s already trying to work around the house and do chores for money. Sienna is my baby, but she won’t be last fiddle. She seems to have been put on this earth to just love all day long.