Family Is Forever
DEBORAH
Choices We Make as Parents
I think any parent would agree that we all make sacrifices we never contemplated before having children. In fact, for me just getting pregnant was in and of itself a struggle and a major life adjustment, one that I don’t regret for a second.
When Al and I got married, I was in my midthirties, so I knew that we needed to get cracking if I was ever going to hear that magical word “Mommy.” To our surprise, within a year, Al and I were ecstatic to learn that I was pregnant.
We were reluctant to make a big announcement since my obstetrician, Janice Marks, warned us that the first twelve weeks for a woman in her thirties could be dicey. But that very first weekend, I was substitute hosting the weekend edition of ABC World News Tonight and couldn’t contain my excitement! I pulled aside my executive producer, Kathy O’Hearn, an accomplished and kind woman in the tough world of network news who was also a friend. “I’m pregnant,” I whispered gleefully. Kathy knew how much I wanted a family and gave me an excited hug.
Days later, Al and I shared the great news with a few close friends and family and began making plans for our new bundle. Then we had a sonogram that stopped us in our tracks. Something didn’t look right. Dr. Marks, usually spirited and happy, looked ashen as she revealed an unthinkable prognosis. The fetus wasn’t growing and barely had a heartbeat. We were likely to miscarry. My throat went dry. Al and I were devastated. We prayed and hoped against hope that the doctors were wrong. But days later, I began feeling intense stomach spasms. We had lost our baby.
Months later, barely able to discuss our gut-wrenching pain, Al and I met with Dr. Marks. The good news was that I had healed and would be fine. The tough news, she added, was that in the world of reproduction, I was no spring chicken. She strongly advised us to consider fertility assistance if we truly wanted to begin a family now. Still a bit numb, we were dumbfounded and in denial. “We don’t need medical help,” we thought. This was only one miscarriage. But after meeting with a fertility specialist who determined that I had mild endometriosis and that Al had, shall we say, reluctant sperm, we concluded that in vitro fertilization was probably our best hope of getting pregnant.
It was not an easy proposition, to say the least. I had to have hormone treatments, including injections that Al had to give me in my butt. This was slightly comical, at first, but became annoying when he discovered that slapping my bum numbed me temporarily and gave him the courage to jam the needle in. Remember, this was a daily event! The whole process was painful, humbling and tiresome—and for an added dose of fun, the progesterone, Lupron and estrogen made me cranky, bloated and emotional.
Each weekly visit to the fertility clinic was a roller-coaster ride. There was blood work, pronouncements about the quality and quantity of my eggs and lots of emotional ups and downs. I began to feel like a lab experiment. At the end of each day, who could consider romance when my plumbing was under renovation?
Every night I looked at my flat abdomen and prayed for the gift of pregnancy—and patience, as I knew it could take time to conceive. After years of smooth sailing in my career and in the romance department, I was hitting some serious potholes in the road of life. I began to wonder whether I was meant to give birth and if all of this pain and stress was worth it. One month we were excited to begin the egg fertilization process only to discover that I had missed my ovulation period during an overseas reporting trip. I often found myself in tears.
Then, after several frustrating and painful misfires . . . a miracle. I was indeed pregnant! Al and I were having a baby.
God is good.
This was a treasured pregnancy. I could feel the radiance emanating from this pea-size ball of hope and light within me. I cherished every flutter and twinge I felt. Kathy and other colleagues at work joined us in our joy. I even shared the news of my pregnancy on Good Morning America. The good wishes and excitement filled us with unimaginable joy. And just as thrilling, my career was on the ascent.
I was gradually moving into the prestigious world of news anchoring, filling in on Good Morning America and the weekend edition of ABC World News Tonight while of course remaining a regular correspondent at 20/20. While my belly grew, so did my stature at the network. I was known as a dependable and seasoned journalist; now stardom was just over the horizon. I owed a lot to Amy Entelis, the company’s vice president for talent relations. She believed in me and she was also becoming a trusted adviser and friend.
At the time, things were a bit rocky at the network. The ratings for Good Morning America had been slipping, and longtime anchors Joan Lunden and Charlie Gibson had left the program, leading to a game of musical chairs. It was somewhat dizzying and uncomfortable to be sure, but it was also an opportunity for someone new to the scene like me. ABC was turning to me often, and I was becoming a big part of the family, especially at Good Morning America. The further along I got in my pregnancy, the more we incorporated it into on-air conversations as a way for the audience to get to know me. I began referring to my unborn baby as “Pookie” on the air, having fun with hosts Lisa McRee and Kevin Newman during this magical time in my life. I was excited about everything in front of me, from my exploding career to my expanding belly. I couldn’t wait to be a mom. At the same time, I was also secretly feeling vulnerable and uncertain about how having a baby would affect everything I was working so hard to establish. I wondered if I was prepared to juggle this long-awaited miracle baby with a grueling work schedule. Could I bear to leave her in the arms of someone else and race off to the studio or jump on a plane for the next assignment? I had always thought that this decision would be logical and easy, but it was now weighing heavily on me.
Al, on the other hand, was completely and deliriously ready for our bundle of joy. His career was secure and he already had his morning routine well in place. His alarm would go off at four a.m. and he was out of the house by five. On the many days I was appearing on Good Morning America, I was keeping a similar schedule. Long before reality TV, we were a perfect fit for our own show, both of us bleary-eyed and bumbling around in the darkness for an early-morning call. Then we’d hop on the elevator and step into the predawn light together, get into our respective cars, and head to competing morning shows. Sometimes we even showed up on the air at the same time, much to the amusement of our families. As a couple, it was fine and manageable. We both had dinner at six and fell asleep by eight thirty. But what if this was a permanent arrangement? What would it mean to our newborn baby if we were both gone before she even woke up? Could I handle that kind of emotional tug-of-war?
Could I hit pause and postpone my career trajectory?
After trying for so long to get pregnant, what was I willing to sacrifice for the well-being of my child?
Amy had asked me point-blank if I could see myself on the morning show. I knew she was taking my temperature in case the network wanted to offer me the prized job as news anchor. Like any ambitious reporter, I told her, “Of course I could.”
I was flattered and thrilled. I was also terrified! I should have been honest with Amy, but I was worried it would be career suicide. Instead, I spilled my guts to a senior producer at ABC whom I trusted and admired very much. I wanted his opinion because I knew he could be neutral and nonemotional, plus he had worked on the morning program and knew the rhythm well.
“Deborah, are you sure you want to sacrifice your personal life for a program that is still under construction and isn’t stable or secure yet?” he said. “I predict there will be other changes before this is all over.”
That was the first time I had considered whether I was walking onto a sinking ship and might lose my footing in the process. Maybe he was right. Maybe this wasn’t the time to sign on with so much at stake professionally and personally. Would I sacrifice precious time with my daughter only to end up dismissed from a troubled program, just as others had been? I wrestled with this idea, playing out every possible scenario in my head.
One Saturday, just before my daughter was born, I received a call from David Westin, the head of the news division. He said he wanted to talk to me about becoming news anchor. Even though I’d known it was probably coming, I felt completely unprepared! Ordinarily, anyone would jump for joy at the prospect of what he was offering. In fact, if I got that same call today, I would be thrilled. But at the time, I was so petrified about the uncertainty of what I was facing, personally and professionally, I wasn’t sure how to respond. I was paralyzed by fear of the unknown. Instead of being excited and appreciative, I was hesitant and a bit aloof. I asked if I could get back to him with my answer.
I spent the weekend discussing the pros and cons with Al and my agent, Richard Leibner. There was a lot to consider. I was about to have my first baby, a baby I’d struggled to conceive. I knew if I signed on to the troubled morning show, I would need to hit the ground running immediately—no maternity leave—and give it my all. I also knew I would never get those first few months of bonding time with Leila back. I didn’t want to regret that, and I didn’t want to resent the network if they later decided to rearrange the morning lineup again, at my expense.
Richard understood, but cautioned that it could be awkward. “The network hates to hear the word ‘no,’” he gently offered. I was torn and confused. I was certainly not intending to take on a lighter workload after becoming a mother, but did I want to increase the pressure and the hours? In retrospect, I wish I had called Amy for a heart-to-heart mom talk, but I didn’t. In the end, I came to the conclusion that it was not the right time for me to take the job.
On Monday morning I reluctantly passed. David Westin was visibly surprised. Who would turn down such an opportunity? It was a defining moment that I now realize was a career torpedo. Although I had imagined it as a worst-case scenario, I didn’t expect to be an exile to the land of “mommyhood.” But when I returned to work, things were slightly different. Suddenly the assignments I had been used to getting dried up. Any ascension toward the anchor world came to a halt. I still filled in on the weekend nightly news from time to time and continued with my regular segments on 20/20, but other specialized assignments no longer came my way. The buzz of excitement had quieted. I’m not going to lie—it was painful.
But I was able to bond with my daughter in a way I wouldn’t have if I had gone that route, and for that reason alone, I wouldn’t change a thing. I was able to spend three carefree months at home with Leila, breastfeeding her on demand, strolling through the park with her on long walks and getting to know my little Pookie. It was sheer bliss.
Do I ever wonder how things might have been different if I had taken the anchor job and had gone forward on that path?
Sure, sometimes.
In fact, I confess that I had second thoughts about my decision for months—okay, for years. But I ultimately made peace with my choice. Every woman—and I hope every parent—has to weigh what is best for the family as a whole. After years of thought and prayer about moments gained and lost, I now know one true thing. When we make decisions, we must own them: no second-guessing or what-might-have-beens. I have faith that God guides our decisions and puts us on the road we’re supposed to be on. Happiness is contingent on accepting our choices.
AL
What Do Soupy Sales and Drake Have in Common?
AUGUST 1965
“Mom! Mom! Soupy Sales is playing at the Singer Bowl! Can you take me? Please?”
I was eleven years old and I was desperate to see Soupy Sales at the World’s Fairgrounds in Queens, New York. Soupy Sales was a master of slapstick comedy, a descendant of the baggy-pants comedians of vaudeville and burlesque. It might be hard to imagine today, but when I was a kid, Soupy was a huge star who could get away with hitting guys like Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. in the face with a pie. People actually lined up to get hit in the face with one of his pies!
I was what you might call a hard-core Soupy Sales fan. Like any devotee, I collected his fan magazine and even had all the Soupy Sales comic books, published by Archie Comics. I had all his albums, and played his three hit songs, “The Mouse,” “Your Brains Will Fall Out” and “Pachalafaka,” over and over, making my parents nuts. To me, he was a rock star. I watched his show every day on WNEW, Channel 5 in New York. If Soupy was eating grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch, you can bet I was too! I’m not exactly sure how big his demographic was with preteen black kids, but he had me.
In short, I was obsessed with the guy, and once I found out he was coming to Queens, I was relentless in my pursuit to get tickets to his show.
My mom didn’t exactly have a great appreciation for slapstick comedy. She didn’t like Abbott and Costello, didn’t get Laurel and Hardy and hated the Three Stooges. To her, Soupy Sales fell into that same category of entertainment. The idea of a pie in the face wasn’t funny to her—or most women, whose first thought is usually, “Who’s going to clean up that mess?”
Despite feeling like she’d rather have a toothache than see Soupy Sales, Mom could see how much this meant to me—or I wore her down with my begging—and she agreed to take me and my friend Keith Morgan to the show at the Singer Bowl. When the day arrived, all of Queens seemed to be out in the streets. The World’s Fairgrounds were packed and the buses and subway trains were too. When we got off the number 7 train, we walked for what felt like miles among the sea of people.
Mom kept asking, “Is Soupy Sales really this popular?” She didn’t have any idea that the Beatles were playing nearby, at Shea Stadium!
Our tickets were in the nosebleed section, but it didn’t matter. I was there to see my hero and, deep down, I secretly believed he would somehow see me. Knowing I could barely see the stage, Mom bought me a pair of souvenir binoculars with Soupy’s face on them. For an hour and a half, Keith and I laughed at his jokes and sang along to his hits. I was in heaven. To this day, I fondly remember this as one of the best nights of my life.
Mom, on the other hand, paid absolutely no attention to the concert. She spent the ninety minutes reading a book.
Many years later, when Soupy was the midday radio host on AM 66 WNBC, I finally had the chance to meet my hero, just like in my childhood dreams. But it was even better: We became friends, and he was my sponsor into the Friars Club, the renowned show-business fraternity.
OCTOBER 2013
“Dad, Dad! Drake is playing at the new Barclay Center in Brooklyn and at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center too. Is there any way you would let me go?”
I’d love to tell you this was my first experience taking one of my kids to a concert I didn’t want to go to, but it wasn’t. My older daughter, Courtney, somehow figured out a way to get me to take her and some of her friends to their first Jingle Ball—an annual concert at Madison Square Garden where twelve or more acts perform a couple of songs each—for four hours! The sheer pandemonium of it had me thinking I had actually found hell on earth. As I sat there enduring the pain, every minute feeling like an hour, I flashed back on my mother taking me to Soupy Sales that night and thought to myself, “Oh, right. This is what we do as parents . . . Now I get it.”
It still didn’t make being there any easier.
The following year Courtney asked me to take her to the Jingle Ball again. Being a little older, though, she said, “Dad, do you have to sit with us?”
I understood where she was coming from, so I got a ticket for myself a couple of rows back. I packed an itty-bitty night-light, foam earplugs, headphones and a book and thought, “This time, I’m ready!”
The band Smash Mouth was onstage singing their hit song “All Star,” and despite myself I found myself singing along. I never once lifted my head up from the pages of my book—until a roar began to build from the crowd. When I looked up, I realized that someone thought it was a good idea to flash a shot of me on the Jumbotron!
Ugh!
I knew in my heart that Courtney was mortified. Nobody else would know she was my daughter, but I knew she would think seeing her dad up on the Jumbotron was horrendous.
In that moment, I said to myself, “I am done with this.” I never wanted to put one of my kids through that kind of embarrassment again.
But when my daughter Leila came to me with such passion, such hope, such desire to see her beloved Drake—what was I supposed say?
“No,” I told her.
Are you kidding me? I’ve listened to this guy’s music. There was no way I would let my fifteen-year-old daughter go to a Drake concert.
But, of course, I then thought back to my mother and the sacrifice she made for me when she took me to see Soupy Sales, and I realized I had responded without thinking about it first. I didn’t want to be the dad who was always saying “No!” so I changed my answer to, “Okay . . . if I take you.”
The look on her face was a cross between disbelief and abject horror. I could see her processing the concept. “I want to go to this concert more than anything, but the thought of being seen with my old-fogy father is so depressing. Yet I want to go sooooo badly . . .”
“Leila,” I said, interrupting her reverie, “do you want to go or not?”
“I guess so. Can you sit in another section?”
I didn’t want to take a gaggle of girls to Brooklyn, because the Barclay Center is very large and overwhelming, especially on a Saturday night. The concert in New Jersey was on Sunday night, which somehow felt more, well, tame, but it was a school night, which meant by the time the concert was over, we’d have no choice but to hightail it home and we’d still get in past midnight—not ideal for a kid who has to get up for school and a dad who has to get up even earlier for work.
I looked up other options and saw that Drake was playing Hartford, Connecticut, the night before Brooklyn. Hartford was only a couple hours away by car. Bingo! Since the show was on a Friday night, we could have a father-daughter getaway. We’d make a road trip out of it.
I booked two hotel rooms—one for Leila and her friends and one for me. It took the girls two hours to get ready for the show. Thankfully, I had planned for the primping in advance and got us to the hotel early.
Let’s not even talk about the transformation of Leila and her pals from clearly fifteen-year-olds to young women whom guys were going to be ogling. I do not like this part of the job. But I’ve seen girls her age wearing far worse, and so I held my tongue as we drove to the venue.
Other than the parking-lot attendants, a few of the food-concession workers and security guards, I was, by far, the oldest person there. And also the only guy in the audience wearing a sport coat. Hey, I had never been to a rap concert before.
There were three—yes, three—acts, all with only one name each.
Future.
Miguel.
Drake.
Weren’t any of these guys given a last name?
Sting, I get.
Cher, I get.
But these guys? Get over yourselves, sheesh!
Someone buy a last name—please!
My next problem was, why have a concert with three acts doing the exact same thing?
Okay, maybe they did do slightly different things. Future jumped around a lot and had another DJ mixing beats for him. Miguel jumped around a lot, but also played guitar and ripped his shirt off.
And, of course, there’s Drake, from the mean streets of . . . Toronto.
Are there mean streets in Toronto?
It didn’t take long for the people around us to start noticing that Al Roker, their friendly morning-show weatherman, was at, of all things, a Drake concert. My general rule of thumb when I am out with my kids is to keep my focus on them. I never want to appear to be a jerk and refuse to sign an autograph or take a picture with a fan, but when I am with my family, it’s about my family. Fortunately, Leila was amused by the reaction I was getting, which made it more palatable for all involved. That is, until three white dudes sat in front of us—obviously college students, obviously half drunk, with their pants halfway down their butts, trying to look like they’re black rappers.
All I could think was “No! Stop it! Stop! You’re not black or rappers! Pull your damn pants up!” as I tried to shield my daughter’s eyes from the awful sight. To make matters worse, one of them turned around and actually tried to hit on Leila and her friends.
“Pull your pants up and face forward, got it?” I said. “They’re in high school, pal!” He never turned around again.
About halfway through the concert, one of the security guards finally took pity on me. He came over and handed me some bright yellow foam earplugs. I’d like to tell you they helped, but my hearing was already shot.
Four hours later, I understood exactly how my mother felt the day she took me to see Soupy Sales. I was awakened from my pounding, bass-induced state of semicatatonia by a transparent circle that detached itself from the stage and transported Drake skyward about seventy-five feet off the floor of the XL Center. While a DJ played sexy beats, Drake started pacing around the circle, talking to the girls in the audience from his lofty perch. “I see you . . . and you . . . Hey, you, in the leopard suit . . . I see you. Ooooh, pretty mama in those hot pants . . . I see you.”
He did this for twenty minutes. Leila and her friends were ecstatic, hoping and then believing that Drake was pointing right at them.
In fact, the crowd was going nuts. I’ll admit—he held them in the palm of his hand for that entire segment of the show. It was around this time I decided to take a video on my iPhone and upload it to Vine. It’s pretty much a still shot of me looking like a miserable zombie, while everyone around me is enjoying the show. It was like I was frozen in time while everyone around me was moving, dancing and having fun. My expression conveyed what I was thinking: “Why am I here? I am way too old for this!” This wasn’t a concert to enjoy; it was a test of endurance.
But then I realized I was wrong.
You see, I got to spend some quality time with my daughter doing something she liked. Plus, Leila and her friends were having a wonderful time. And the more I watched her smile and dance, having fun with her girls, the more I realized that none of this was about me. These experiences are all about my kids.
My parents’ passing left me thinking about my mortality a little more often than I used to. When you have parents, there is a symbolic buffer between you and the abyss. But now I was much more grateful for every moment. And as a parent, this is what I’d signed up for—concerts, Disney On Ice, amusement parks, school plays, dance recitals and all of the other things that we sometimes moan and groan about having to do—especially someone like me who is a slightly more “mature” father. “Why am I here?”
Because this is what we do.
We sit through the recital—watching other people’s kids dance right alongside our own.
We spend weekends at soccer games and horse shows and yes, even concerts.
Not because we have to.
Because we want to—because we don’t know how long we have to share those moments with our children or how long they will want to share them with us. If I didn’t take Leila and her friends to see Drake, another parent would have, and those memories would be someone else’s to hold on to. When I weigh out the options, the truth is, there’s no other place I’d rather be than watching my kid have the time of her life.
After the show, the girls were so excited, laughing and being silly, like young girls can be. I will admit, that made me feel pretty darn good. And then I heard, “Thanks, Pappers!” That’s what Leila calls me. In that moment, despite the fact I hadn’t fully regained my hearing yet, my heart was full of pure love. I had forgotten all about my misery and replaced it with her joy. I smiled, knowing I had done something good that night. It was worth it. And so what if I’ve lost a little bit of my hearing? It’ll come in handy when Leila asks me to go to another concert.
DEBORAH
Mom Guilt
I am an overscheduled, goal-oriented, people-pleasing, career mom who just can’t seem to say no. Here’s how life generally works for me.
The minute I hear of a hot story, I’m on it, lobbying to do it for 20/20. If a producer pitches an intriguing idea, even while I’m on a plane in the midst of another shoot, I am quick to say, “Let’s do it!”
When Nicky asks for pancakes at six thirty a.m. before school, I am whipping up the batter by six forty-five.
At least two days a week we find ourselves racing from the breakfast table to the garage so I can drive both kids to school across town and hopefully dash back in time to squeeze in a two-mile run.
If a friend asks me to swing by a charity reception, I vow to make my way there, even if I’m still in the audio booth at six p.m., the event starts at seven and I still need to get home and change clothes and I’m freaking out in Manhattan evening traffic to get there.
If Al suggests a long-overdue romantic dinner, I feel I should accept his sweet gesture even though I’ve got a bad case of acid reflux and I’ve promised Leila I’ll watch Pretty Little Liars with her. I quickly snuggle up with her when we return, to squeeze in a dose of what’s left of Mommy.
Whew! I’m exhausted just thinking about it! But I’m also riddled with guilt, because I can’t be everywhere I want to be all of the time. Oprah Winfrey, who’s been an acquaintance for many years, calls this the “disease to please,” and boy, do I have a bad case of it.
The worst kind of guilt is Mom Guilt. Like so many mothers with demanding jobs, I feel that I need to sacrifice myself for my children. In order to be more there for them, I have to give up time for me.
If Nicky is feeling anxious about a test or has a tae kwon do competition, I want to make sure I am there for him. When I missed Leila’s basketball game or her beloved hamster Buttercup died while I was at the airport, I worried about whether I let Leila down by not being there.
I kick myself when I have to tiptoe out of the house before my kids wake up, or when I’m traveling somewhere for work and can’t tuck them in at night, or when I’m working on a weekend and miss out on going to church or to the movies with Al and the kids. I realize that I am there more often than I am gone, but somehow that rational thought is suppressed by the dreaded Mom Guilt.
I am determined to change this because I understand it’s wasted energy that doesn’t make life better or happier for anyone—most of all me! As women, we too often beat ourselves up for never being in the right place. If I’m at work, I feel like I should be at home doing more. If I’m home, I’m e-mailing and trying to figure out how I can get more work done. Like so many others, I’m constantly wondering if I am a good enough mom.
Did I say the right thing when Leila dissolved into tears after a disappointing audition?
Was I too harsh on Nicky for sneaking his iPad to school?
I know I am not alone here.
Please tell me you’re nodding your head in agreement.
No matter how well things seem to be going at home, I constantly wonder if the grass is greener on the other side. Recently, I had lunch with Karen, a dear friend who exited off the career freeway to stay home with her four kids. Whenever we meet, she breezes in looking serene, and I secretly and enviously wonder, “Should I do that?”
I never stop to wonder, “Could I do that?”
If I did, the answer would probably be, no way—at least not long-term. I am too driven and career-minded. Last winter, when a snowstorm closed New York City schools for a highly unusual two days, Al was stuck at work, reporting the weather for nearly forty-eight hours straight. I stayed home with the kids, thinking it could be a treasured bonding experience. I imagined us playing games and doing homework together before baking cookies and eating them in front of the fire. Instead, Leila and Nicky were at each other’s throats within hours, and I was haranguing them to walk Pepper, make their beds and turn off the TV. I was exhausted by lunch (which I made, of course).
The next morning, itching to get to work, I decided to keep my appointment to do an interview downtown. The acerbic comedian Gilbert Gottfried had been fired by Aflac after making some controversial remarks, and I was going to ask him how comics know if they’re going over the line. It was straightforward enough, so I decided to take Nicky with me. “I can be a mom and a reporter at the same time,” I thought.
Wrong!
As the cameras began rolling, we could hear Nicky cheering and jeering as he played Angry Birds on my phone. Gilbert, himself a dad, good-naturedly shouted, “Shut up!” And then laced it with an obscenity.
Oh, that Gilbert!
We all laughed and soon finished the interview, but I learned a big lesson. Assuaging my guilt by bringing my son to work only made me feel more stressed and, in the end, guiltier!
I often assume the kids are feeling slighted and are suffering emotional erosion when I am at work or not entirely focused on them when we are together. But I am slowly learning that it isn’t always the case at all.
In the midst of another guilt trip, after a shoot that required me to work the previous weekend, I decided to spend a Saturday alone at our weekend home with Leila while Al and Nicky stayed in the city for a birthday party. I was in the throes of a complex three-part story for 20/20 about a father who had mysteriously vanished and the piece was due in a few days. My producer, a smart go-getter named Alyssa, who was also a mom, offered to begin in the edit room and work with me by phone for the day so I could keep my plans with Leila.
Leila and I were looking forward to snuggling together on the sofa, eating some popcorn and enjoying an afternoon movie. Just as we pressed play on the DVD player, the phone rang. Alyssa wanted to talk through some concerns about the script. I grabbed my iPad and began rewriting a few paragraphs. Then, as often happens when I’m engrossed in script writing, I had a new thought and then another. I carefully and specifically gave her directions as we rewrote a page or two. We said good-bye. Ten minutes later the phone rang again. Ever the careful journalist, Alyssa wanted to confirm a date in the story that seemed questionable.
Half an hour later, I hung up, feeling guilty that I had shortchanged Leila on “our” weekend.
I apologized to my daughter because I wanted her to know I respected our time together and didn’t take it for granted. But before I could finish, Leila threw me a serious curveball.
“Mom, you’re really cool,” she said.
Huh? I didn’t see that coming.
“The way you juggle everything and the way you always try to balance your work life with your family life means a lot. And your patience with your producer was amazing,” she added.
Wow! I was floored!
Here I was thinking that thanks to my career, I was wrecking a beautiful memory and providing fodder for therapy one day, and Leila made me feel like a million bucks.
It took my teenager to drive home a serious message. I was so busy feeling guilty, I never once stopped to consider that I might be successfully setting a good example about being flexible, accomplished and nurturing toward a coworker. I knew I wanted to be that kind of mom. I was trying to be that mom. I just didn’t realize that I was that mom. Al often tells me that women should take a page out of the guys’ handbook and feel less guilt. I think he’s right!
When it comes to parental G-U-I-L-T . . . Guys Understand It’s Less Tricky!
Somehow they have a way of feeling half full about life rather than half empty. Al doesn’t dwell on whether or not he missed Nicky’s school assembly three days ago; he focuses on how he raced home in time to take him to swim class today. Somehow he holds on to what he accomplished and lives much more in the moment—and for the moment—than I do. A few weeks ago, as we were lying in bed after a long, exhausting day, I asked Al if he ever feels like he is screwing up as a parent, or not doing it right.
“Nope, not really. I made Nicky’s lunch this morning and sat in on his tae kwon do class. I feel pretty good about how I’m doing,” he said with great confidence.
Granted, he has been through the parenting thing before, raising his daughter Courtney, so he had a little experience under his belt.
Look, I am not saying that my husband is immune to guilt, but he doesn’t carry it around like a weight around his neck. Why fret over what he didn’t do last week? He reminds me that he can’t do anything to change the past. Similarly, my mom used to quote Old Testament scripture that essentially says, “Once you put your hand to the plow, don’t look back.”
That lesson also applies to parenting. I am trying every day to take it to heart and to teach my children that no matter what happened yesterday, we are now focusing on today and what lies ahead. Feelings of regret and guilt are wasted emotions.
Thankfully, I am blessed to have a supportive husband who understands that. He also seems to recognize when I need to step away from the stresses to reclaim myself.
When my good friend Jerri moved to London a few years ago, she invited me to come hang out for a girls’ weekend. Now and again I mentioned it to Al, and for months I came up with dates that worked and then excuses for why they didn’t.
“I should go check in on Mom down in Georgia and see how she’s doing” or “Leila needs help with that project” or “Nicky really needs a new winter coat.”
Before I knew it, a year had passed and we still hadn’t booked our trip. Finally, Al took matters into his own hands.
“Let’s book this trip once and for all!” he said as he took out his iPad and began searching for flights.
Al was forcing me to do something wonderful that I felt slightly guilty about doing for myself. He knew I needed this getaway more than I did! A weekend away from the kids, with no stress, no pressure, no one pulling at me and no guilt was a gift beyond comprehension.
I boarded my evening flight with a joyful ease that I rarely feel when leaving home. My thoughtful, kind husband had booked me in business class. Woo hoo! When the flight attendant offered a glass of champagne and eye shades, any misgivings I felt soon melted away.
Soon I felt like a giddy teenager playing hooky. Jerri and her husband, Gregg, gave me a beautiful weekend getaway. We enjoyed shopping, sipping English tea and long, beautiful walks around London. What a joy to sleep late and worry about absolutely nothing except which hot new London restaurant we should try next! When I called home, Leila quickly remarked that I sounded so relaxed.
“You should do things like this more often!” she said.
At that moment, both she and I understood the power of taking a deep breath . . . even thousands of miles away.
I hung up with a happy smile—and best of all, no guilt!
Since I came home from that trip, I’ve strived to remember and hold on to that relaxed feeling.
Of course, it doesn’t always work. Oh well. Maybe another trip will help. I hear Paris is nice in April! As they say, practice makes perfect!
AL
The Opposite of Mom Guilt
If your life is anything like mine, you’re in constant motion, doing your best to keep up with your obligations at home and at work. The idea that you could actually stop and take a breath every once in a while sounds pretty good, though most of us don’t give ourselves that much-needed break. When we do get free time, we feel like it should be spent with our kids or doing things around the house, to make up for the time we spend away from home.
That’s why I love business trips. I am a firm believer in the value of getting away from the home front for a period of time, leaving a little early and taking an extra day or night to relax. I don’t fill my time away with unnecessary dinners or meetings that merely fill empty space. I am busy enough. I look at these windows as an opportunity to slow down and take a breath.
Deborah is the complete opposite.
I think it’s her Mom Guilt—which is what moms get by putting the weight of the world on themselves.
I have the opposite of Mom Guilt.
Would I rather be home? Absolutely.
But I don’t feel like a bad guy because my job takes me away from time to time. It’s part of the gig. Working in morning television is like belonging to a small fraternity. There are only a handful of people who have the same experiences that I have, not to mention the hours. While there are definite perks, there are, of course, drawbacks. I go to bed early and am awake well before the crack of dawn. I am often in bed before my kids and can’t be at home in the morning to put them on the bus to school. On the other hand, I can be there to pick them up at the end of their day, help them with their homework and make dinner. I’m usually home before Deborah, which means I’m waiting for her with a glass of wine in hand and a home-cooked meal waiting on the table. It’s a bit of role reversal that I rather enjoy.
Matt Lauer and I don’t sit around trading parenting tips, but we do talk about what we do in our off time, such as traveling to horse shows because his wife and his daughter ride. We’re just like every other dad who wants to attend every swim meet, chess tournament or spring concert we can. I can recall one occasion when Matt couldn’t make his son’s baseball game because he had to do a big interview, and I could see in his eyes he was disappointed. I think it’s great that today’s dads are much more involved. When I was growing up, fathers weren’t expected to be at parent-teacher conferences or art shows. Now when I go to school during the day, at least half the parents there are dads. Even President Obama finds the time to attend his daughters’ school and sporting events! He has the weight of the free world on his shoulders—if he can make the time, anyone can! The problem is that dads get a big pat on the back when they come and often get a pass when they don’t. Moms are expected to be there, and when they can’t make it, they feel guilty about it! Even when no one else is putting that pressure on them, they put it on themselves.
Whenever Deborah has to travel for work, she prefers to leave the morning of her interview, rushing to catch her plane and then rushing right back home, getting back late at night, long after the kids have gone to bed.
Not me.
I prefer to leave the night before, get in a workout, have a nice dinner, get a good night’s sleep, do what I need to do the next day and take a decent flight back.
Whenever I suggest going early, getting a massage, having a glass of wine, pampering herself a bit, Deborah says it sounds good in theory, but her Mom Guilt quickly creeps in before she can say yes. She always has a long list of things that have to be done, and have to be done by her.
Sometimes less is more. I think Nancy Reagan was ahead of her time when she came up with the motto “Just Say No.”
I have a good buddy who just can’t ever seem to say no!
No matter how hard he tries, he just can’t say it. He’s such a nice guy, he doesn’t want to let anyone down, so he overcommits and spreads himself so thin that he’s exhausted all of the time.
I don’t understand why people can’t just say no without feeling compelled to give a reason. Unless you are my wife or my parents, I don’t feel the need to justify myself—not even if you are my kids!
“Because I said so and I am your father” is the only reason they need. I accepted that answer from my father, and I totally expect my children to accept it from me. Truthfully, it doesn’t always work, but hey, sometimes it does! Why is it we can say yes to things we want without providing a lengthy explanation, but somehow “no” has become something we feel the need to rationalize? When you think about it, “no” is the most powerful word we can speak. “Yes” is a good word, but “no” is better. “No” says you are taking control—or better yet, you are actually in control.
People say yes to things they don’t want to do all the time, because they feel guilty saying no.
Not me.
I know what I don’t want to be a part of and I am quite comfortable saying no. I often think of the Snickers candy bar commercial where you are not yourself when you are hungry. Well, you can’t be you when you’re exhausted, tired and crazy because you’ve spread yourself too thin. Learn to say no and you will actually have a little time for yourself. Nobody is going to give it to you but you.
At the end of the day, I know I am a better husband and father because I have taken “me” time instead of giving that time to things I don’t care about.
When Steve Harvey came out with his book saying women should think more like men, I liked the idea, but I think he missed one important point. I believe moms need to think more like dads. They need to stop feeling guilty about allowing themselves time and space. They need it as much as we do. We all do.
And guess what?
Your husbands are capable and even happy to help out so you can have that.
My coanchor, Natalie Morales, who is a great woman and married to a great guy, once told me she can’t let her husband dress their kids.
“What would happen if he did?” I asked.
“He would have them wearing gym pants every day!”
“Are people going to stone them? Are they going to be shamed? Are people going to point at them on the street and post pictures on the Internet?” I asked.
“Well, no . . .”
Of course not! She knew I was right.
Look, as hard as it is to say no, sometimes it’s even harder to say yes to help, or to just loosen your grip enough for your partner to chip in.
Dads are not incompetent, despite the premise of most great American sitcoms, from The Flintstones to The Honeymooners to Everybody Loves Raymond to The King of Queens. All of these shows were based in truth. You’re supposed to be the king of the castle and the fact is you are not. (At times I feel more like the court jester, but it’s okay.) Our wives still run the home and we just get to live in it. On the rare weekday that I’m off and have the chance to get Nicky ready for school (Leila is her own girl, with her own fashion sense. I have nothing to do with that), this is what I hear when he walks through the door at the end of the day.
“You sent him out of the house wearing that?”
Never mind that Leila doesn’t own an outfit that covers her midriff. It seems I’m the only one in the house who has a problem with that.
I’ve had some memorable disagreements with my wife over my buying the kids’ clothes or making their school lunches. These are things she feels are the mother’s role or responsibility. What she really means is that she doesn’t trust me to do as good a job as she would.
“Is this 1955?” I said when Deborah shared her feelings with me.
I liked the idea of packing the kids’ lunches; I saw it as a way to be a part of their morning routine even though I leave the house long before they wake. Making their lunch gave us a nice little connection. Unfortunately, I had to make the lunches at four thirty a.m. and Deborah worried that the food wouldn’t be fresh by the time they ate it at noon.
What? I put it in the refrigerator. People aren’t salting their meats to preserve them anymore. We don’t need a guy with a block of ice coming up a flight of stairs to put it in a wooden case. Refrigerators run on electricity these days! I know a lot of people make their kids’ lunches the night before, but it was still a losing battle. Deborah started worrying about the portion sizes I was giving the kids. In her mind, I was putting fifty-five-gallon drums of sugar in their lunch boxes, when in fact I was giving them snack packs of Oreos or granola bars along with a piece of fruit. It’s true that I wasn’t packing carrots and celery sticks, but I had found those were the items that routinely came home uneaten. Call me crazy, but why bother?
And so you know what I did? I stopped making lunch. I said to Deborah, “It’s probably better if you make lunch, since you know how you want it made and it’ll save us a lot of stress and strife. I love you too much to argue about lunch.”
Suddenly, my early mornings got a lot less hectic. I wasn’t worried about what bread to use and whether we were out of raisins or where’s the mayo? Deborah, on the other hand, started complaining that the extra workload was becoming a pain.
Ohhhh. Really?
Eventually, I took pity on Deborah, and now I’m back to packing lunches and she’s staying out of it, letting me pack what I want. She even admitted that my making lunch makes her morning a little easier.
One of my favorite movies of all time is Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. At the very end of the movie, Indiana has fallen into a gap, trying to reach the Holy Grail, and his father says, “Let it go.”
His father spent his entire life looking for the Holy Grail, but when it became a choice between that and his son, there was no contest. When it comes to keeping peace in your home, sometimes you need to just let it go. The true Holy Grail is what is around you—your family, your happiness. If your kids are happy and healthy and they want to hang out with you, and your wife is happy and healthy and wants to hang out with you, stop looking for the Holy Grail, my friend—you’ve found it.
AL
Kids (and Dogs) Invading the Bedroom
When my kids were younger, I used to feel a tinge of rare dad guilt for not spending more quality time at home with them. I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t about the quantity of time spent, but the quality. It turns out, I was wrong. It comes down to both.
I always wish I had more time to spend with my kids. I’m not there when they wake up and get ready for school, and one of the downfalls of getting up so early is finding myself dead tired at the end of the day. I can’t remember the last time I slept late. Even when I have the opportunity, Nicky wakes up at the crack of dawn, so I find myself getting up with him by five or six a.m. But because my chance to see the kids is in the evening, I try to stay up as late as I can possibly manage in order to spend some quality time with them. I’ll offer to help with homework or we’ll cook something together, but honestly, by seven p.m., I am beat. People are talking to me and suddenly my eyes are closing.
“DAD!”
“Wha . . . what is it?” I mumble, half asleep.
“You’re falling asleep—again,” they say.
“I’m not sleeping. I’m just resting my eyes!” I can’t help but think of my father every time I give that answer because that’s exactly what he used to say.
Sigh. I may as well give it up. Sooner or later we all become our parents, and my day has come.
Admittedly, my perpetual state of fatigue has become something of a running gag around our house.
You see, by the time my kids finish all their homework and we have dinner, I have come down from my day and am ready to hit the sack.
Leila will say, “Why are you so tired?”
And before I can answer, Nicky will chime in with my usual answer. “Do you know what time I get up?”
“Every day I have to wake up at three forty-five in the morning. I work a long day, so of course I’m tired by the end of the day . . .” Leila will continue, as if it were a well-rehearsed monologue.
It’s like their version of Abbott and Costello’s Niagara Falls bit . . . “Slowly I turned . . . step by step . . . inch by inch.” As soon as you hear the words “Niagara Falls,” you launch into the routine.
Same in my house. They sure know my spiel by heart.
Well, they should.
I’ve been saying it for years!
And it isn’t just at home where this can happen. I have been known to doze off in restaurants, at the theater, in cabs and just about anywhere I can catch a little shut-eye. Sometimes Deborah tries to get me to sit up straight as a way to revive me, but it doesn’t help when all I want is to get horizontal.
Yet just as I’m ready to call it a night, Leila comes in and sprawls at the foot of our bed and starts to download her day. It’s literally an information dump. She begins to talk and doesn’t take a breath for ten minutes. Meanwhile, Nicky comes in and snuggles up, and of course, Pepper, the World’s Greatest Dog, will not be denied and takes up her position. When we got Pepper, I always said that no matter what, that dog wouldn’t be allowed to sleep on the bed; that is where I draw the line.
Well, you can see where I rank in the pecking order, because this is the usual scene that greets me as I come out of the bathroom, freshly shaved and showered and ready for bed.
Noooooooooo!
I may have mentioned I am a bit OCD about certain things. My bedtime routine is one of them. I like my pillow cool and untouched. I like my side of the bed cool as well. I love the feel of slipping into those crisp, unrumpled sheets and settling in. When there are two kids, a wife and a dog in there, my pillow and sheets are anything but. They are warm, rumpled—and occupied! So not only is there no room at the inn, but the inn is as hot and bothered as I am.
Now I must wriggle in and find a spot to settle on, while my children and dog, wide-awake, want to engage their dad.
Believe me, I want to be engaged.
I try to keep my eyes open.
I do everything I can to not fall asleep.
But usually I fail.
“Dad, I want to—” Leila says before noticing I’m drifting off.
“DAD!”
“I’ve got to go to sleep,” I sheepishly say.
Deborah often reminds me that we don’t know how long Leila will want to continue sharing the details of her high school life—that we should cherish it, embrace her presence and let her talk. I agree. She’s right, but I’m really tired!
I’m trying to get better, but it’s hard.
Besides, I come from a generation where you didn’t spend any time in your parents’ bedroom and there was no expectation of it at the end of the day. I did my homework, took a shower, put on my pajamas, kissed my mom and dad good night and went to bed. I never even went into their room unless I was summoned, sick or absolutely had to bring something to them. And if I did enter their sacred space, I knew enough to stay for a brief moment and then get out.
The only time we spent any significant time in their room was to watch their color TV. We had a black-and-white television in the basement, which we could watch whenever we wanted. The color TV was reserved for special occasions, such as the World Series or the Knicks championship game.
Deborah and I go back and forth about whether or not these same standards and expectations still work in today’s world of cosleeping and family beds. Call me crazy, but I like the idea of taking a shower and not having to worry about covering up before walking from my bathroom to my bedroom. And while you’re at it, knock on the door and wait for me to say “come in” before you enter. That’s why we close the door in the first place! For privacy! A door should be knocked on if it’s closed.
That said, one of the things I admire about Deborah and am trying to emulate more is her ability to engage the kids at bedtime. She gives them all the time they need to unwind, unload and unburden their souls. (Pepper just needs her belly rubbed. So do I, but that’s another story.)
Kids’ lives are much more programmed and scheduled today than mine was growing up. Homework looms over them in a way I never felt. Even though we talk at the dinner table, I find that to be a very different kind of conversation. Everyone is still in their “on” mode, thinking about what still needs to be done before calling it a night. The only chance we all get to let out a sigh of relief is at bedtime. Those fifteen or twenty minutes spent hanging out in our bedroom allow our children to decompress and just be.
And so now, when I come out of the bathroom expecting a chance to snuggle with my wife (and these days, as tired as I am, a snuggle is all I want!) and then a quick visit from the Sandman and find my kids camped out, I just smile and say, “Kids, start your mouths. I’m all ears.”
Sure, I wish they’d stay off my side of the bed, for Pete’s sake . . . Okay, nobody under the age of seventy-five says that anymore but I can’t say what I’d like to say, so I smile and climb in, looking for a little room, offer an inviting ear and with a little luck, a quick rub o’ the belly.
Is it an exercise in patience?
Sometimes.
Do I struggle?
It’s harder for me when I am tired.
When I don’t have to work the next day, the burden is certainly lifted.
But I always try to remind myself of my father’s sage advice: It’s not about your needs; it is about what they need.
Yeah, I know I’ve referred to this advice a few times throughout this book, but it does seem to cover a lot of territory, especially when it comes to parenting.
Although my children don’t necessarily realize it, it’s our job as parents to know they need that connection with us, just as I need my connection with Deborah and she with me. Connecting as a family is a priority for us, and I will take it any way I can get it, because I realize these nights of gathering on the bed won’t last forever. Sometimes I hear Harry Chapin singing “Cat’s in the Cradle” in my head, especially on those rare nights one of the kids doesn’t pop in. Kids grow up fast, and you have to make each day count. Strive for both quality and quantity in your time together. That’s what creates connection.