There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me (41 page)

“Oh, I know your kind,” she said.

She pushed back and staggered off and out into the night.

Chris came over to me immediately and apologized and said he was so sorry, but he had to draw the line at our baby. I was relieved she was gone but profoundly sad that it had to be that way. I thanked Chris for defending us, even though I knew he was just defending his daughter. That was the man I knew he was and the father I wanted for my children. But overall, I was just fatigued by everything.

My in-laws were trying to act normal and were successfully
avoiding discussing anything but this perfect baby. I could tell Lila was angry and sad and hurt and frustrated by having to deal with Mom again and again. Nobody had any authority over my mother. Even in this supposedly blessed and happy moment, she could not be happy or healthy.

My heart was breaking for a few reasons and it would soon become evident that I had reached an emotional limit. The cumulative and recent pain and sorrow had caught up to me and I was breaking apart. My heart ached for everybody I loved and was now breaking for myself. I fell asleep that night looking at this little stranger under her orange light and I envied her. This baby was allowed to be helpless. I had never been permitted to be so.

•   •   •

The next day the doctor came and told us Rowan’s hips had not fully formed and she would need to wear a strong Velcro brace for a few months. I sat there on my hospital bed and could not grasp anything. I hated breast-feeding, I had lost a lot of blood and was weak, my baby was yellow and needed a paddle attached to her with intense light, and now her hip sockets had not formed and she needed to wear a brace that made her look like a marionette whose knees were stuck bent up. I did not have the strength to feel happy or available to the present potential of joy. Rowan was in a brace, but I felt like I was in a straightjacket.

I was able to keep my uterus and my life and I was soon released.

At home, it seemed that nobody could help me. I continued to struggle with breast-feeding, I could not stop crying, and I had horrible visions of Rowan getting hurt. I would get dizzy at the powder smell of the diapers. I’d huddle in the shower with hot water pounding down on me and not move for extended periods of time. Food had no taste or appeal. I actually still haven’t eaten lasagna since my mother-in-law made a pan of it that first week. I had taken one bite
and could not even swallow. I had such trouble producing milk for my baby because I was not nourishing my own body.

On one incredibly low day, Chris went out to get a changing table because we were totally unprepared for the arrival. For some reason I had not been proactive about setting up a nursery. I knew the due date but had not bought the necessary furniture and had only set up the nursery by getting a rocker that had actually been a gift.

Chris came back from a store (ironically called buybuy Baby), empty-handed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to cry. He said he had seen happy mothers holding their newborns, and pregnant mothers smiling and shopping.

“What is wrong with you? You don’t sing to her or kiss her.”

I felt my world end. I could only answer that I did not know and that I was so sorry. I left him in our room and hobbled out to see my mom, who was sitting on our leather tufted coffee table in the living room. I slumped in the chair in front of her and began to cry. She asked me what was the matter, and I looked at her and with dismay said, “I made Chris cry.”

“I made him cry?” she asked.

“What?! Oh my God, Mom,
no
, not
you
.
I made Chris cry!
You
are not the important one here. Get out of this house right now or I am going to jump out of the fucking window. Get out—I mean it!”

She just sat there motionless and trying to be invisible. I cried and escaped back to the bedroom, disgusted. I knew her hearing was deteriorating but I could not believe that she heard something about her—and not about Chris or me—in what I was crying about. Just like when Dad died and she asked me if he had asked about her, my husband was crying and she thought she had caused his tears. It was all about her in her mind, not out of narcissism but out of fear and insecurity. Mom had just stared at me and had become helplessly still. Her eyes looked like those of a scared little kid witnessing something horrible.

I realized the problem did not actually concern her. There was something terrible wrong in my life and it affected all those around me. I did not know where to turn.

•   •   •

I would soon get a baby nurse to help out for a week, which turned into a year. I got help from a doctor who referred me to a pharmapsychologist who prescribed me the proper combination of medication. I also began to eat better and began to exercise again by taking Rowan on long hikes around the neighborhood in New York and LA.

Things settled down and I stopped hating my mother for not knowing what I needed. How could I expect her to talk about her experiences from a place of wisdom and understanding when she had never spent any time on self-reflection? I realize today that she was scared most of the time and lonely all of the time. I was eventually even able not to punish my mother for continuing to call Rowan “Brookie.” We invited her out to California because, no matter what, I wanted her to know my baby and I wanted Rowan to know this grandmother as well.

I didn’t realize, though, that this was the beginning of a new phase in our relationship and my mother’s health. Mom started being more and more helpless. The next few years would be a challenge in an all new way.

•   •   •

In the months after Rowan was born, there were a few times that Mom visited us in LA and seemed to be in a quieter place. I was going back and forth between New York and New Jersey and LA, but for the beginning of Rowan’s life we were primarily living in Santa Monica. Chris was working on a new TV show and we were living in a house on the west side of town. Rowan was only a few months old but was getting so big so fast, and I really wanted Mom to see that I was
doing a good job taking care of my baby. She enjoyed playing with Rowan and putting pink sponge rollers on her few bits of baby hair. Mom would spend the first few days seemingly not drinking, but by day three it was always clear she did not want to be under my watchful eye.

Not watching my mother was never something I could do. I always fell right into a codependent routine of scrutinizing her every move and trying to anticipate those I had yet to see. I wanted my mother around because that way I knew she was alive. But she made me crazy in ways I could not believe. She would say things under her breath or I’d see an expression of judgment in her eyes and I would have to address or fight it. Even if I left the room and counted to ten or practiced deep breathing, I would have the urge to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze. Even when I’d try to be sweet, it felt forced because she made me nervous. Oh, how my mom could unsettle me and undo all the work I had done on myself to live a healthy and self-actualized life. And why did I still seek her approval?

I still would rather have her be around than alone and in an echoing house in New Jersey. It was a relief to have her arrive safely off the plane and a relief to see her leave. She was OK with Rowan but was never left alone with her in those early days.

I wanted to have her go on these walks with me while I pushed Rowan in a stroller around the neighborhood. I had had such good deep conversations with Gemma, our baby nurse, on these walks, and I would have loved the Hallmark moment with my mom as well. Sadly, Mom’s knees were bad and her arthritis was making it very hard for her to do any walking. She was perfectly comfortable to sit and watch movies for hours. It seemed it was the only activity we occasionally still enjoyed together. For some reason it bothered me when she sat doing nothing all day, just watching movies. And for some reason I didn’t trust that she was not also trying to snoop around my office or even pocket little things just because she felt entitled to do so. It was very strange but Mom wanted any form of control she could find, even if it meant stealing back a little ashtray or coaster we had gotten in Europe on one of our earlier trips.

Her health did seem to be declining and it was beginning to be apparent that alcohol consumption was not her only issue. It would be years before the problem would be diagnosed, but she was somehow increasingly different and booze was surprisingly no longer the only problem.

When I once went back to Haworth when Rowan was about six months old, it became even clearer to me that drinking or not, Mom was not completely coherent. She would get confused or not be able to follow a story. This particular night in Haworth, Rowan was sick and I really did not feel secure with my mom helping. She began drinking, only in the evening, but I realized that I was totally alone in caring for my sick infant. I had no car because I had been dropped off at my mother’s for the night and her car was in the shop. She had had
her license taken away from her anyway, so she wouldn’t be needing a car. I was going to help her sort through some closets that needed cleaning out that evening, but Rowan had gotten a fever and instead I had to keep a close eye on her.

Chris told me to call a car and leave immediately. Leaving abruptly was proving problematic, but I figured since I was near a police station and hospital I had a potential escape plan. I called the doctor and he said just to keep an eye on her fever. If it got past 103, then I should worry. I tried to cool her face off with cool compresses.

It was a real traumatic night for me because I felt so alone and so afraid for my daughter. I had my own child to care for and it really hit home for me that I could not rely on my mother to help. All my life I felt secure knowing I could handle my mom and take care of myself. I also always believed she actually did take care of me growing up. I had survived, hadn’t I? This feeling with my own baby girl felt very different and deeply unsettling. Suddenly all bets were off and I hated my mother and her incompetence.

I consciously separated myself from my mom and her issues, and survival kicked in. But this time it was not for myself but for my infant. Something deep within me shifted and I made Rowan my only emotional and physical focus. My daughter became my only priority. I realized, completely, that I could not count on my mother to help my daughter or me. And most likely not even herself.

All throughout my life I had held out hope that my mother would one day ultimately show up for me and give me the freedom not to worry about her or put her needs ahead of mine. In these moments of fear for my daughter’s health, I realized that it was up to me to reclaim that freedom on my own. She would never be able to bestow on me such peace and autonomy. Rowan slept and I stayed awake to watch her breathing. As I lay awake listening to Rowan’s labored breathing and praying for her fever to break, I hated my mom and I
redefined my loyalty. By dawn Rowan’s fever had broken. I was exhausted but buoyed by the fact that the worst was over. I returned to New York City and never discussed any of it with my mom. There was no point.

•   •   •

Two years later, living in New York again, I was planning to appear in the musical
Chicago
for the second time as Roxie Hart, this time trading London’s West End for Broadway. I had called my IVF doctor to say that I wanted to start the process of getting pregnant during my run in the show. I would need a few months of medication, and being in a show was the best time to do it, because I am always my healthiest when performing. After some routine blood tests the doctor called back to tell me that the process would not be necessary because I was already pregnant. I was stunned and elated but now suddenly afraid of doing eight shows a week while pregnant. The doctor said not to do any extra exercise and I would be fine.

Mom came to my opening night on Broadway and seemed happy to be included, but very distant. She seemed uncomfortable and unable to articulate herself. I had been getting more short and curt with her recently because she couldn’t even seem to order the food she wanted at a restaurant. She whispered instead of speaking loud enough to be heard, and I would often impatiently hurry her on and speak to her in a condescending tone. I could not seem to stop myself from lashing out. I would get frustrated and oddly embarrassed.

I would get impatient and raise my voice, saying, “Mom,
what
do you want to
eat
?”

I would then just pick for her and apologize to the server out of embarrassment for my mother’s lack of focus. I felt mortified that she was acting like a little kid and I was ashamed of my own impatience. Later, Rowan would stick up for Toots and tell me not to be mean to her, scolding me.

Other strange things happened as well. Chris came into the kitchen one afternoon and saw my mother place a ceramic bowl of soup onto an open flame on the stove. He stopped her and said, “Teri, that should be in a metal pot.”

“I know but it’s faster this way. Take out the middleman.”

Luckily, he managed to avert disaster by offering to help and, in fact, serve her. This soup incident sent up our first warning sign. This was beyond my mother’s normal eccentric nature.