I never knew how much money I made during my early teenage years. I sensed I wasn’t workin’ for minimum wage, though. My job didn’t involve cleaning the deep fryer or wearing a cone-shaped paper hat. I knew I could make in weeks what my father made in a year—which seemed insane considering how hard he worked.
My parents handled all my money. Some of my income paid for the high expenses of being in the business—incidentals such as headshots, taxes, agent fees, manager fees, lawyer fees, insurances and union dues. Much of it went into a trust account guided by a law that required parents to put a certain percentage away for their children. Dad increased that mandatory percentage and upped the age when I could get my hands on it, and he invested my money in a variety of places.
Sure, I would have enjoyed buying that private fantasy island. Yes, I would have enjoyed legally changing my first name to Gilligan and starting my own perfect civilization on that uncharted desert isle—but Mom and Dad knew better. They had foresight to realize I would handle my money better once I was older.
Mom became my manager when it was clear we couldn’t afford the costs related to acting unless she got a full-time job. Someone needed to take me to the studio daily and stay there, because it was required by law that every underage kid have a parent or legal guardian around all day. It seemed silly to pay someone else to do that, so she took the job.
Mom was great on the set. Everyone loved her. She was never considered a “stage mom” and I liked that about her. Much like Mike Seaver had an attractive, likable mom in Maggie, I had the same in my real mom. Everyone loved Barbara Cameron.
She didn’t shackle me or smother me with her love. Mom stayed in the background and made friends with the crew. She baked hundreds of dozens of her famous chocolate-chip cookies for all. She broke through the Hollywood games with her down-to-earth simplicity.
In the beginning, I didn’t look at it as a career for myself. I looked at it as a potential opportunity for my kids, whatever that panned out to be. I just wanted them to be happy. There was never anyone in our family who was involved in the business prior to our kids and so I was pretty green at what a parent’s role was, other than to drive them to auditions and if they were lucky enough to book, then I would sit on the set and make sure that they were not abused or treated poorly.
Eventually my parents started giving me an allowance more substantial than most kids had, based on my income. I usually took that cash to my bank (conveniently located next to Foster’s Freeze) and stashed it away in my savings account. I kept my little red bank account book in a safe place, occasionally opening it to glance at the total. I couldn’t believe how much money I had!
That $132 balance was my treasure, my loot, my booty. I was a squirrel whose nuts overfloweth’d.
Despite my desire to mastermind my own private island civilization, in truth, I was never a big spender. In most practical cases, I was a very frugal kid. When I finally purchased a sports car, I bought a Honda Prelude. It was a sweet ride, but not exactly the price of a Rolls or a Bentley or a Jag.
From ages 14 to 21, I was in a strange position of power, which made for a warped adolescence. A huge load of responsibility was dropped onto my shoulders when Growing Pains took off. Never having done it before, I didn’t know how to be a kid and live like a responsible adult at the same time. I didn’t know how to do all that was required of me and still be like a regular teenage kid. All I really wanted was to be normal. My way of dealing with the pressure of the business was to compartmentalize, so I didn’t talk about business when I was home.
Kirk and I never talked about work, ever. Our friends weren’t on television shows. There was a point when I realized my brother was the only one who could relate to me on this aspect of our lives. I once asked him an industry question at home, wanting to kind of talk to him about it. I don’t even remember what it was about—whether it was getting a different part, or an actual acting technique, or whatever. His answer was nice, but very short. He had absolutely no interest in talking about acting or the entertainment business at home. He was a very private person when it came to work.
Candace Cameron, Kirk’s sister
Playing someone popular—a “breakout character” they called it—gave me influence on set. I wasn’t looking for that type of power; it just came with the territory. But even more confusing was the role I played with my own mother. At the age of only 14, I was my mother’s employer.
She worked for me, in a twisted order of hierarchy. Professionally, I told her what I wanted and didn’t want. I expected her to handle my appearances, schedule my auditions and manage my money.
I know that to most, having some kind of authority over one’s parents sounds like a dream come true. “Here’s how it’s gonna go down, Ma.” But it wasn’t at all. I wasn’t comfortable being my mom’s boss or with the daily flip-flop of authority. I was supposed to be her employer on the set and her kid once I walked through the front door of our house. The power shifts were freaky and hurt my brain a little.
Kirk was distant with me when I talked about business at home, so I came up with a plan to look different when I needed to play manager. I dressed in a suit and went to the set to see him. When he saw me in the suit, he knew there was business to attend to.
I tried to keep my commitment to just talk about work at work and not at home, but that didn’t last very long. There were too many decisions that needed answers at a moment’s notice.
The whole situation became more uncomfortable to me when I turned 16 and could drive myself to work. I didn’t think I needed a manager anymore, but it was my mother’s career. The situation was getting messy, and I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what to do.
I had watched my mom change from being a relatively shy and insecure woman to a strong woman in her job as my manager. I didn’t want to take that away from her. In a way, I felt my mom was dependent on my approval of her. I knew a good portion of her self-worth came from holding down this important job. She was finally building the confidence in herself she had always wanted.
I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders, like I was responsible for everyone’s happiness—my mother’s, my friends’, the cast and crew, my fans and the entire nation of viewers who were relying on Mike Seaver to teach their kids right from wrong. The years of being “on” all the time began to suck away the joy and fun.
While being aware that I was responsible for everyone’s well-being, I took a very difficult step—one I agonized over for some time. I can’t remember how it happened, but I fired my mom.
I remember when Kirk said he needed to talk with me. I had known this day would come and had tried to prepare myself for it. The way Kirk approached me was very sensitive. I remember him telling me that since he had a new agent, he didn’t need me to manage his career anymore. His new agent would do that.
What meant a lot to him was the new camp he was starting, Camp Firefly. He asked me if I would still handle all the details of the camp for him. That eased the pain a bit.
It was hard to be “fired,” but I think letting go of his affairs was a relief to some extent. It had been difficult to try and maintain a normal mother-son relationship with the work dynamic thrown in.
Mom was gracious, but I bumbled through the conversation as only a teenager can—ineptly. There’s no easy way to “let a parent go” from a job and I wouldn’t wish that situation on anyone.
But what I really needed was a mom. I still wanted to take advantage of that free laundry service at home. I wasn’t about to turn away the homemade potato-chip casseroles or her famous turkey tacos. I didn’t even mind when the “chore chart” was put up on the fridge. That was the normalcy I craved. I wanted Mom to continue to bring warm cookies to the set, making me the guy with the best mom around.