18
Like Mother, Like Daughter?

“Brian, I know I’m pregnant,” I said after three years of marriage. “But you haven’t even taken the pregnancy test yet,” he said. “How do you know?”

“I just know.”

We’d only been trying to conceive for about two months, but we’d taken a very methodical approach to getting pregnant, charting my temperature to pinpoint exactly when I’d be ovulating. I was thirty-one years old and Brian and I had decided it was time to have children. Why leave anything to chance when we knew what we wanted?

Brian insisted on buying two pregnancy test kits because he doubted my intuition.

“Wow,” Brian said, his face bewildered as he looked down at the stick with “+” mark on it. Then a huge smile bloomed on his face. “I’m going to be a dad!”

Of course, I was happy, too. But the prospect of having children was daunting. I’d never loved all-things baby, and at that point in my life, I felt very connected to my career. I knew “doing it all” (meaning both family and work) would be very, very difficult. I’d watched many female friends struggle to raise a family while continuing to work full time. They were often exhausted, having to endure endless sleepless nights, and were often sick because of germs brought home from school or daycare. The only thing that made having children possible for me was knowing that Brian would be a great partner and father.

“That’s so wonderful!” my mother said over the phone that night. ”I’m finally going to be a grandmother!”

Over the next nine months, whenever I was on the phone with my mother, I would always pick her brain about being pregnant. Since we carried the same genes, I reasoned that she could give me clues about the trajectory of my pregnancy.

“Do you remember when your morning sickness stopped?” I asked. “I’m not throwing up, but I feel nauseated all the time.”

“I didn’t throw up much either. I think I felt better after three months.”

“Well, that’s not too bad.”

“I craved Italian bread and water ice constantly.”

“Really? I don’t have any cravings.”

“Not yet,” she said, laughing.

“But how much weight did you gain?” I asked, cringing.

“About twenty-two pounds,” she said. “Pregnant girls today, they gain like fifty pounds. In my day, doctors wouldn’t let women get that heavy.”

My father was also thrilled about becoming a grandparent, but, of course, he and I didn’t talk about the same things. Rather, ours were general discussions about how I was feeling as well as the shared excitement as my due date drew closer.

Brian and I found out we were having a daughter during my fifth month. I was relieved because I’d wanted a little girl most of all. And both of my parents were elated about the arrival of a granddaughter, since they knew what it was like to have a daughter.

We prepared, as most new parents do, by reading lots of books. The amount of “stuff” that seemed necessary to care for an infant was overwhelming—the bobby nursing pillow, two types of strollers, high chair, crib, the breast pump, the bouncy chair, and a million other things. . . . I had my share of minor panic attacks thinking about how to use all them.

Even Brian, who normally enjoys making a heavy analysis of any purchase, said to me with a furrowed brow, shopping for a stroller, “I can’t even tell the difference between them anymore!”

Fortunately, my pregnancy was an easy one. But during a routine sonogram three weeks before my due date, I was admitted to the hospital for monitoring when a test came back with some concerns.

After a full day of more tests, my doctor strongly advised that we induce birth.

“I thought we were just doing some testing,” I said to the doctor, my voice quavering with worry. Brian sat next to me and squeezed my hand. “I’m not due for another three weeks.”

“The tests from this morning showed a stop in the heartbeat for an unexplained reason, and although we didn’t see this again, I still don’t think you should go home,” the doctor said.

My jaw clenched. “Well, what if I decide I don’t want to have the baby now?”

“Then you take the risk of your baby dying,” my doctor said plainly.

All we had to hear was “your baby dying” and Brian and I decided to proceed with inducing labor. Brian called our families, a few friends, and my office to keep them informed. After thirty-six hours of steadily increasing the Pitocin dose and the doctor breaking my water, the delivery progressed very slowly, then after twelve hours of active labor, my doctor was now considering a C-section.

“Okay, let’s check to see if you’re dilated,” my doctor said. “If there’s no progress, we’ll do the C-section.”

I’m not even sure how I responded, only that I spoke groggily, and at that point, I hadn’t slept in over two days.

“Well, it looks like we’re ready to have a baby,” the doctor said, her head popping up over the top of my knees. “You’re dilated at ten centimeters.”

“It’s time,” I said weakly to Brian, who had been crumpled in the chair next to me asleep.

“What!” Brian said, startled awake. “It’s time?”

Our daughter, Grace Kelley, was born on June 29, 2002 around 2:30 a.m., more than two weeks before my due date. She was the perfect little peanut, less than seven pounds, with her nose slightly smashed as a result of being pushed through the birth canal. It was quiet in the room and Brian and I took turns holding her.

“She scored perfectly on her APGAR test,” Brian whispered to me proudly. I sighed in relief—this meant that the stress of the birth had hopefully not caused any serious complications. Brian looked exhausted, but he was also glowing with some sort of inner light as he looked down at his daughter.

When I held Grace on that first day, I realized that my turn at being a mother would be nothing like my mother’s experience. I would keep chaos out of our lives, I would be a calm, steadying influence, and I’d already chosen a spouse who didn’t have a risk-taking bone in his body. I would always strive for my daughter to have the perfect childhood, learning from the many mistakes—as well as the many good things—that both my parents had done.

For Grace, Brian, and me, things would be different.

*

Brian and I arrived home a few days later and we had a week alone before our families started to arrive for visits. In those weeks (and the weeks and weeks after that), I barely slept and I cried frequently as I adjusted to taking care of a newborn. Grace developed jaundice and wasn’t feeding well. Our pediatrician was concerned about her getting enough nutrition and she ordered a bilirubin blanket to manage the jaundice. The blue glow of the blanket helped Grace’s yellowish features subside within a few days.

“I don’t know how you did this,” I said to my mother on the phone.

“Well, it’s tough being a new mom,” my mother empathized. “I’ll be there soon.”

“The breast feeding isn’t going well because of the jaundice. So I’m supplementing with formula.”

“I had so much milk with you. I had to wake you up to relieve the pressure.”

“I don’t have that problem,” I said, feeling very much like a failure.

“You’re going to be fine, Kristin,” she said soothingly.

“Did Dad help you a lot when I was an infant?”

“Oh, no. Men back then didn’t take care of children at all.”

“Brian is doing a lot,” I said.

“That’s because Brian’s a great husband.”

“Mom?”

“Yes.”

“I just feel so tired. When did you start getting sleep?”

“After about three months. You were a good sleeper.”

More and more, I came to rely on my mother for advice, and during that time I developed a new, mature empathy for her. Now I realized—truly realized—how easy it was to feel isolated when you have small children. The responsibility is constant; it’s not like you can pick up and go whenever you want. The whole post-partum experience was taxing on me, both physically and emotionally. The thought of my mother raising a small child without hands-on assistance from my father—either due to his work or the cultural mores of the time—was striking to me, especially since Brian was so actively involved.

*

My father and my stepmother, Angie, arrived first for a five-day stay. During that trip, they transformed into Pepop and Nana, and they helped Brian and me out as much as they could. My father’s main mode of “help” was walking around the house videotaping every moment and cooking meals, while Angie watched Grace as I tried to sleep. “No offense, Kris,” Angie said, “but you look like shit. Go take a nap.” It was nice to have them there, and ever since Grace’s birth, they’ve visited almost every few months, just to help out.

My mother arrived next—after my father left, of course—and a few days after that, Grandma Maria would be arriving to meet her great-granddaughter.

“Let me see my granddaughter!” my mother said excitedly as soon as she crossed our front door.

Grace was in a bouncy chair in the center of the living room and my mother leaned over and scooped her up.

“Aren’t you so beautiful,” my mother cooed. “Kristin, she’s just perfect. I know I’m biased, but she’s such a good looking baby.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said wearily. It was three weeks after the delivery and I was still feeling like I’d been hit by a truck.

My mother went to work right away, doing laundry, cooking meals, and cleaning. During the afternoons, we would watch cooking shows and Oprah. It was nice to have company during the day and to have my mother right there to answer any questions, instead of having to call her all the time.

My mother and I both went to pick Grandma Maria up at Union Station and we easily spotted her in an orange top and denim skirt as she made her way toward us through the crowd. Even at seventy-nine years old, she still had swiftness in her step

“There’s my mommy,” Grandma Maria said, hugging me.

The highlight of all the family visitors was seeing Grandma Maria meet Grace for the first time. Like a pro, Grandma Maria scooped her up and rocked her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re no longer the baby in the family,” Grandma Maria whispered to me, now cradling Grace on her lap.

“Well, I’m okay with giving up that title,” I joked.

“I have to get a picture,” my mother said. “This is four generations here.” Then she called in Brian from the other room and asked him to snap a photo.

Mothers and daughters have such a complicated relationship, I thought. As I looked at my grandmother and my mother, I realized that their relationship was completely different than the relationship between me and my mother. It was difficult to imagine, at that moment, how my relationship with Grace might evolve. I was sure there would be times when Grace wouldn’t understand me at all, just as I often hadn’t understood my mother. And of course I knew that Grace would be a mystery to me in many ways. But I hoped that the vital family currency—of time and attention—that I banked with Grace in her younger years would later be the foundation of our future relationship.

I was lucky that Grandma Maria had the chance to meet her youngest great-grandchild, because I knew she would miss many things in Grace’s life—graduations, wedding, and the birth of Grace’s children. And there would be so much that Grace wouldn’t learn from Grandma Maria. But my mother and I would always tell the stories—like the hilarious time when Grandma Maria saw Deep Throat—and we would detail how fiercely protective she had been of her babies and, of course, of Kitty.

We all carry our family’s history with us. The relationships that are forged between mothers and daughters, as well as between fathers and daughters, influence our beliefs and ideas. Exploring my parents’ experience through the Deep Throat days, and beyond, is something I will never forget. My daughter now inherits our family’s past, and how she chooses to use it to address the decisions in her own life will be up to her.

*

In June of 2008, I traveled to Fort Lauderdale for my twenty-year high school reunion. I couldn’t believe that much time had passed since I had graduated from high school. So much had changed in my life and, luckily, I wouldn’t be sharing sob stories of divorce or hard times with my classmates. Everything was going well. Brian and I had been married for ten years and Grace was already six years old. Kelley accompanied me to the reunion since Brian and Grace did not make the trip to Florida.

“Let’s drive by our old neighborhoods,” Kelley said as we were leaving a St. Thomas Aquinas charity golf tournament in Plantation.

We turned off Broward Boulevard and headed down Seventieth Avenue. We arrived at Kelley’s old street and drove slowly passed the house where she had lived. It was at the end of a cul-de-sac among other houses with nice, manicured lawns.

“Still looks the same, except the color is different,” I said staring up the driveway. “I remember when you were fifteen years old, you couldn’t wait to get your driver’s license and we would drive up and down your street in your mom’s car.”

“Yeah, that was fun. I was a better driver back then than you are now,” Kelley said jokingly and I laughed, not disagreeing. She then paused in a reflective way, “A lot of bad stuff happened here but we had some happy times, too.”

We took some back roads and arrived at West Planation Circle and drove the twisty road around until we reached my old ranch style house. It looked smaller than I remembered and the landscaping was more mature and overgrown.

“I always loved this house,” said Kelley.

“I did too,” I said with a weak smile, wishing we hadn’t moved years ago. “It’s surprising how much our lives have changed since we lived in Florida.”

“It was a lifetime ago,” said Kelley.

“I think we did okay, don’t you?”

“We did more than okay; we hit the jackpot.”

We both had wonderful families. We earned our graduate degrees and had successful careers in the non-profit world. The big plans we made as teenagers, even though our direction wasn’t always clear, came to fruition. Our lives were everything we had hoped for.

As I sat in the passenger seat, it saddened me to imagine what my life would have been like if my family hadn’t move to Florida and my father remained a stockbroker. I would not have met Kelley or many other great friends in my life. I might not have attended Florida State University and married Brian either. Despite the heartache of the Deep Throat days, I didn’t wish my father never distributed Deep Throat.

Being a pornographer’s daughter, I felt, brought me wisdom I might not have otherwise gained. And I learned that a seemingly small decision could change the direction of my life, so all my small decisions were important. I never wasted time on a friend or a boyfriend who didn’t deserve it, I chose trustworthy people to have in my life, and I developed a strong empathy for others.

It was clear that what my father did for a living didn’t shape who I was. It was how my parents handled being in the pornography business and raising a daughter that did influence me. My father overcame many challenges and succeeded in business despite a very bad situation. I also learned from his many mistakes and the missteps my parents had made in their marriage. Their dysfunction was certainly magnified with the fall out from Deep Throat. I wished that they had stayed together, but I had to respect their choices as they had respected mine.

“Come on. We should get going,” I said snapping back to present day.

“Okay, I’m glad we took this trip down memory lane,” Kelley said.

“Me too,” I said, grateful for the perspective it had given me.

We drove off giggling about our younger years and excited about who we might catch up with that evening.