Lady Parts (4 page)

R
ecently, I accepted the invitation to write a monthly humour column for
ParentsCanada
magazine. What was I thinking? I don’t remember my kids’ names, never mind the way I parented them nearly thirty years ago. Except that I was anxious
all the time.
Worried that I was not doing it right, whatever “doing it right” is supposed to mean.

In 1986, when my sons were three and five, we moved from Toronto to Los Angeles. I enrolled them in a small private school that Meryl Streep and Dustin Hoffman sent their kids to. This only added to my anxiety. I would study Ms. Streep as she waved goodbye to her kids when she dropped them off in the morning, and feel that my goodbyes paled in comparison. Her goodbyes were the goodbyes of a real mother, so heartfelt, so honest, so underplayed. My goodbyes were empty, desperate, over the top. “Mommy loves you … MOMMY LOVES YOU.” There wasn’t a dry eye in the playground as Ms. Streep handed over the lunches to her kids and, with the brave determination of her Oscar-winning performance as Sophie, made the
choice
to get in her Volvo station wagon and drive away.

To overcompensate for my parenting insecurities, I volunteered my services at every school function from the time my kids were in preschool until they graduated from high school. And I’m not kidding
—every
school function. Every lousy school event that no one else signed up for, there was my name at the top. When your kids are growing up, you still believe the extra volunteer work you put in at their schools will somehow guarantee their future success and happiness. I really believed that a guidance counsellor or teacher or principal would remember that I had cleaned out the rabbit cages and, one day, would give my kid a great recommendation for Harvard. So with this insane belief, I emceed the comedy fundraisers, I raced in the bikeathons,
jogged in the jogathons, boarded turtles and snakes at my home during school break, picked debris off the Santa Monica beaches, directed the school plays, and made cookies, lasagna, and Armenian bread and raffled them off along with my leopard-skin Edith Prickley hat. I drove the football, baseball, lacrosse, and tennis teams to every game, and spent thousands of dollars at silent auctions on bad crafts made by other well-meaning parents. I even participated, along with Ms. Streep and Mr. Hoffman, in the weekly storytelling hours. I hired a dialect coach and worked with him three times a week, not to be outdone by Ms. Streep and Mr. Hoffman. I recited
Wind in the Willows
with a German accent (“Vonce upon a time, there vas a vind in da villows”) and
The Ugly Duckling
with a New York Jewish accent (“What do you want to do, shoot the ducklings, these lovelies?”). I acted out
The Velveteen Rabbit
as Ratzo Rizzo (“Hey, rabbits, I’m walkin’ here. I’m walkin’ here”).

Of course, none of my volunteering did anything to secure my kids’ places in the world. In fact, all it invariably did was make me more insecure as a parent. Volunteer work puts you in close proximity with other desperate parents, and then you start making small talk and digging for information, and the conversation moves to how many extracurricular activities your kids are involved in and what grades they got on a paper, and you soon find out that your kids are achieving far, far less than the other kids, and so besides spending endless hours making paper
hats for the fall fair, you find out you really
are
a bad parent and your kids probably won’t even graduate from preschool.

Babies and kids have a way of trumping everything. They have an uncanny effect on how we prioritize our lives.

When my oldest boy, Jack, was a mere three weeks old, I was flown to Los Angeles to be a guest on
The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson.
For a young actor starting out, an appearance with Mr. Carson was the most coveted spot on any talk show. If Johnny liked you, your career was launched overnight. None of this mattered to me as I sat in the green room with Jack, breastfeeding him, changing his diapers, rocking, walking, and attending to his every need. When I finally did my seven minutes with Mr. Carson, I was a resounding success. My only priority while I was on the panel was getting back to the green room for Jack’s next feeding. I never once concerned myself with how I was coming across to
millions
of viewers. The conversation with Johnny consisted entirely of baby anecdotes. I joked with Mr. Carson that my doctor told me I was going to have twins but it just turned out to be a baby with a big nose. I said that Jack looked like Yoda when he was born, and although we thought he was beautiful, we also retouched his baby pictures. Okay, I admit that all those jokes were affectionately told at my child’s expense, but in spite of using him as
comic fodder on national television, he is today the most unconditionally loving son a parent could ever ask for.

In fact, Jack and my younger son, Joe, are my most astute critics, and I cherish their opinions. They make my career far more important than it is. The fact is, I don’t think I would have had the career I’ve had if I hadn’t given birth to my two sons. My kids taught me how to listen and how to love, and because of that, I believe I am a better actress. They have given me balance and perspective in a career that is too often all-consuming.

When Joe was about to start his last year of high school, I was offered the lead in a new Broadway musical—not my regular supporting part, but the lead, with a very lucrative contract. The show was called
Seussical,
based on the Dr. Seuss books, and I was to play the Cat in the Hat. However, rehearsals would start in September and I’d have to sign a nine-month contract. That meant I would miss Joe’s entire last year of high school. Every time I pictured the curtain going up in New York, I thought of Joe, in Los Angeles. I would not be there for his football games, college applications, homecoming, the jazz ensemble, the high school musical, graduation—a year never again to be repeated. I would not be there for my son. I called my agent, who would have benefited greatly from my doing the part. And I will never forget what he asked me: “Andrea, would you rather be remembered as a great Cat in the Hat or a great mom?” I said no to the part. I stayed with Joe for his senior year, and I have never regretted the decision.

Jack (
left
) and Joe (
right
)

Today, my sons don’t need me in the same way they did when they were children. Joe is an aspiring actor and a musician, and plays in a band. We both performed together recently in the TV series
Working the Engels.
I felt fortunate to be able to share the stage with my son. Jack is a music editor for films and collaborates with many film composers, including Hans Zimmer. My sons are both doing great. They don’t need any interference from their mom. But I can’t help thinking that if I drove Joe’s band around, they’d get more gigs, or if I performed for Mr. Zimmer’s Christmas party or even slept with him, Jack would get a bigger office.

I’d even throw in my Edith Prickley hat.

M
ay 4 is my youngest son’s birthday. As is customary, this year I bought him way too much and flew him round trip from Toronto to New York for a jam-packed, fun-filled, overly indulgent weekend. I bought him theatre tickets, wined and dined him at his favourite restaurants, slipped him some cash, and bent over backwards to honour his special day. I made his bed, bought him clothes, cooked for him, and never let him touch a dirty dish. I came very close to putting him in the bath and splashing him with bubbles. A bonded slave. What a martyr I am.

While he was opening his gifts, I asked him if he could remember his favourite birthday party over the years. He thought for a while, then said, “No, not one really stands out.” I flashed back over all the years. Years of plastic cowboys on cakes, Chuck E. Cheese’s outings, Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, sleepovers for way too many boys, pool parties where
I worried all night that someone would drown, Jacuzzi parties where I worried all night that someone would pass out, and then once, one kid actually did. (Thank God his mom was a close friend or I’d still be dealing with a heavy lawsuit.) Years of making small talk with parents as the kids arm-wrestled in the backyard, in the living room, on their beds, in the garage, on top of the car, and inside the trees. Years of bulk buying at Costco. Years of winning my son’s approval. Did our family throw the best birthday party? Was the $50 videogame that each kid received in his bag of goodies a lovely parting gift, or a desperate, tacky plea for love and acceptance?

Birthdays. I tried to recall one of mine. And only two stood out. My twelfth, when Mark Finks, the freckled, redhaired Jewish boy who I had had a crush on for one year, finally kissed me, and my fiftieth, when one of my close male friends came to my party as a woman. He had just written to all his friends, his wife, and their two kids that he had been living a lie for fifty years. He had felt like a woman all his life, and he was finally going to have the operation to be one. My party was his first public outing. I was honoured that he felt safe enough with me to know he would not be judged, even with his stuffed bra, painted nails, and long, blown-out blonde hair.

Other than those two birthdays, every one is a blur. The routine dinners. The occasional family gatherings. These days, the trend among my wealthy friends is to throw elaborate
birthday parties, renting a fabulous space in New York, hiring an orchestra, having original music written to commemorate their life, inviting top celebrities to sing about them in front of 250 of their closest friends, and paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for the memory.

At Sarah Jessica Parker’s extravagant black-tie party at the Plaza Hotel, the women wore ball gowns, the men wore white tails, and twenty violinists serenaded us as waiters handed out buckets of caviar, lobster, and champagne. Then we all sat down for a six-course meal. At my darling Nathan Lane’s black-tie dinner at the Rainbow Room, Mel Brooks, Elaine Stritch, Patti LuPone, and Matthew Broderick all performed. At Jane Fonda’s sixtieth birthday extravaganza, Ted Turner, her husband at the time, gave her a cheque for a million dollars. Okay, yes, it would be hard to forget those birthdays. But even if I had an unlimited budget, I don’t have that many friends. Twenty-five people in the Rainbow Room is pathetic.

My son is right. Not one of his birthday parties really stands out. In spite of all the hard work, the planning, the organizing, the gifts and gift bags, the entertainment, the money spent, the fretting over what would be the perfect party, I remember the details of only one: 8:31 a.m., May 4, 1983, St. Mike’s Hospital, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Dr. Wilfred Steinberg delivered our beautiful son, Joseph Martin Dolman, in natural childbirth, no complications. Weight: seven pounds, twelve ounces; length: twenty and a half inches.

Happy birthday, Joe. That day I will never forget.

I
n 1991, I was a single parent with two young sons, ages six and eight. All my friends were married or were in relationships, and they constantly pressured me to date.

“Why aren’t you dating? Why aren’t you dating?”

I had no time for anything, least of all dating. But they persisted.

“Why aren’t you dating? Why aren’t you dating? You’re attractive, you dress well, you’re in show business. Hell, you had your own sitcom for two or three episodes. Why aren’t you dating? Why aren’t you dating?”

One morning, frustrated at the never-ending barrage of questioning, I sat down at my desk. This is the rant that followed.