Leggy Blonde: A Memoir (25 page)

How to deal with irrational people? How to absorb their terrible behavior? Over the years, Jane systematically tried to destroy Reid’s sacred relationships. A son and his father. A father and his daughter. A husband and his wife. The real victim in all of this was Veronica, of course. The girl could have two sets of loving parents who worked in concert to raise a happy, healthy child. But that would be a perfect world.

In the real world, we’ve had to walk on eggshells, which wasn’t so easy for me to do. I should add lawsuits to my list of anxieties and phobias. I did live in fear of the next crisis. If Veronica and Harrison had a minor sibling spat, like in every family, I worried that Veronica would run to her mom about it. Jane would freak out and demand hours of mediation. In all these years, Jane has gained nothing except huge legal bills and a daughter who knows the two homes are not at all in sync. But those facts never stopped her.

A
s parents, our destiny seems to be to screw up the kids, to pass neuroses onto our own kids. You know all about my neuroses, but I still came out okay. And my brother Andre came out fantastic. He’s a great uncle—amazing with children—and a really excellent guy. I think he looks like Marky Mark and he has a kind and protective personality. He has a cool job with a WiFi company in Miami and is not a party boy or a model chaser
and
he is single. Ladies, grab him! He is one of the last few great ones out there! He has always been there for me, even when we were children. When I was scared at night, I would hobble over to his room and pull out the trundle to sleep near him. (Okay, that was every night.) As we got older he loved the men in my life who were good to me and wanted to kill those who were not. A smart man, he refused to go on
Real Housewives
last season.

Meanwhile, I’m probably screwing up my kids in ways I can and can’t imagine.

Fade in:

Interior: Therapist’s Office—Day

It’s the year 2043. Thirty-two-year-old Sienna is on the couch.

SIENNA:
 . . . and then my mother went on
Real Housewives of New York City
!

THERAPIST:
Oh my god! You poor kid!

SIENNA:
Yes, I know.

THERAPIST:
Hey, did you ever meet Ramona? She was always my favorite.

In Oscar Wilde’s play
A Woman of No Importance
(which would have been the title of this book if it hadn’t already been taken), Lord Illingworth tells Mrs. Arbuthnot, “Children begin by loving their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.” For my own, I hope they won’t judge me too harshly, and will eventually, with years of therapy, forgive me. Until then, I’m trying to immerse them in normalcy and continue blocking them from watching Bravo.

I don’t believe I have so much to do with my children’s outcomes. They come out the way they come out. I can encourage their strengths and try to improve their weaknesses. I teach them to be curious, kind, and polite, and to celebrate differences. Besides that, I do my best to raise them to be good people and the rest is up to them.

As someone who grew up in a dysfunctional family (really, is there
any other kind?), my refuge is in the commonplace. As my dad’s eccentricities became ever more odd (Sai Baba, anyone?) and my mom’s warmth disintegrated into alcoholic despair, I was nostalgic for the comfort of tedium. I was happiest growing up when I felt average. I’m glad to report that our modern blended family is painfully normal and boring. Or so I think. I might be wrong. We did have some not-so-boring moments, from the kids’ very inceptions . . .

I was in misery every minute of my three pregnancies. It was like my body had been invaded by a foreign enemy. Because of my drug phobia, I couldn’t take Advil for a headache or Pepto-Bismol for a stomachache. I just gritted my teeth and got through it. The only part I truly loved was the kicking and squirming, feeling the life inside of me. That was so incredible, it mitigated the nausea a little.

Being a monoped was an added pregnancy complication. When the center of my gravity changed, it threw off my balance with my prosthesis. I had to readjust my gait. Also, weight gain made it harder to put on the prosthesis. Compared to pregnancy though, labor and delivery were easy peasy for me—the first two, anyway. My threshold for pain might be higher than most. I found birthing to be a civilized process. I had an epidural, waited to dilate, and then pushed my babies out in five minutes. I could have shot them across the room (strong muscles). During my first birth with Harrison, I took the prosthesis off. With Hudson and Sienna, I kept it on. My doctor suggested it, because it was easier to keep myself in the stirrups and bear down.

Reid does not faint at the sight of blood. He was an active participant in the births of Hudson and Sienna. He would have snapped on gloves and taken over for the doctor if need be. I’m not fond of squeamish people. We are all made up of blood and guts. We all poop and pee and other gross stuff. Reid proved himself to be unafraid of gore and gunk during my labors. He was there for me, in the room and at
my side. The type of guy you want to marry, in my opinion, is the one who can watch the baby come out of the vagina and still want to go back there. A real man, like Reid, can deal with it.

After two boys, I really wanted a girl, and so did Reid. We did some research. Gender of the baby was determined by the sperm, which supplied either an X or a Y chromosome. The mother’s egg always contained an X chromosome. It was possible to separate the X from the Y sperm, and implant the chosen flavor, as it were, into the uterus during ovulation. So we started looking for a doctor who would “spin sperm.” It wasn’t an expensive procedure, only a thousand dollars. It might seem weird sciencey, but if I could tip the odds in favor of a girl, I was willing to try.

At the time, my friend’s mother was dying of cancer in Palm Beach. I was up all night thinking about her one night, and unable to sleep. Reid couldn’t sleep with my tossing and turning. So what did we do wide awake at 3 a.m.?

I got pregnant that night. No sperm spinning for us. When we found out, I looked at Reid and jokingly said, “If this is a boy, I am going to kill you.” Boy or girl, at thirty-nine, I knew it was my last pregnancy. At the seventeen-week sonogram, we learned we were having a girl. And Reid’s life was saved.

It was the end of summer 2010. Reid and I were watching
Californication
in bed. Sienna (we had the name picked out already) was going crazy inside me. I turned to Reid and said, “She’s kicking like a black belt. I’m surprised my water isn’t—”

Pop.
I felt the trickle. I clicked on my leg and ran to the bathroom. Yup, my water broke. I called our doctor. He said, “Stay put and wait a few hours for the contractions to get closer together. If anything else happens, go to the hospital.”

Like I needed the invitation? “Got it,” I said. My previous labors
took six or seven hours. With Hudson, I had to be induced. So I figured I had plenty of time at home. We settled in, assuming we’d have at least until four or five in the morning.

Half an hour later, my contractions came on strong, like nothing I’d felt before with either of my sons. I called the doctor back. “We’re going in,” I said.

Reid and I raced to New York–Presbyterian hospital in a cab. I was writhing in pain and gulping for air in the backseat. When we arrived at the prebirthing triage area, I was in agony. It was happening way too fast. I started worrying that something was wrong. I got in a birthing room by 1 a.m. A nurse examined me. “You’re fully dilated,” she said.

I was already in full labor, an hour after my first cramp.

The anesthesiologist came in with his cart.

“Are you ready for an epidural?” he asked.

“
Yes!
But you can’t give me Fentanyl. I’m allergic to it.” I wasn’t really allergic. But I hated that drug. It is a derivative of morphine. I had it during my labor with Hudson, and felt that horrible floating sensation I’ve feared since I was six.

We went back and forth about it. The anesthesiologist complained he’d have to go to the hospital pharmacy to get something else.

“So do it!” I yelled. He was giving me a hard time when I was in full labor? I might’ve been a little rude to him. But finally, he got it in his head that I knew what I was talking about, and prepared another needle.

Five minutes after getting my epidural, the doctor walked in and said, “Okay, Aviva. Time to deliver.”

“The epidural hasn’t kicked in yet,” I said.

He frowned at me. “You’re crowning. You have to start pushing now. You can do it. If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

“I don’t know if I can,” I said.

I did. During my first two births, I was numb. That was why pushing was so easy. This time, I felt the whole thing. It was like shitting out a television set. Fortunately, it happened really fast. Sienna was born by 4 a.m. She practically skipped down my leg at birth. We brought our baby girl home the next day, and our family was complete. Two boys, two girls. At the time of this writing, Harrison is eleven, Veronica, ten, Hudson, five, and Sienna is still my baby at two.

I breast-fed each baby for about a year. I made so much milk, I could have sold some of it and had bottles to spare. I only stopped with Hudson when he had enough teeth to bite my nipple. Sienna still gets some breast milk. I was recently stopped at the airport with a cooler of it. When the TSA says no more than four ounces of
any
liquid, they mean it.

The kids are all so different, which never ceases to amaze me. Harrison is built like a football player, but he’s gentle at heart, charismatic and social. Veronica is sweet-natured and so smart. She’s an avid reader and is already much smarter than me. Hudson is a replica of Reid. If you know Reid, you know Hudson. He’s already trying to work around the house and do chores for money. Sienna is my baby, but she won’t be last fiddle. She seems to have been put on this earth to just love all day long.

They all eat differently. Every night our home is like a restaurant and every child gets a different meal according to his or her needs. (I am such a sucker.) The other night, Veronica said, “You know, the food here is like gourmet food.”

I said, “Oh, my God! Thank you!”

Then Harrison chimed in, “It’s not a compliment, Mom. Kids
hate
gourmet food.”

On any given night, I will make a salad and piece of grilled
chicken for Harrison, who has a big appetite and can only fill up if he eats a lot of veggies. For Veronica, who is super skinny and picky, I stir-fry some shrimp and carrots. Every night, I boil pasta for her, in case she refuses to eat the other options. Hudson was diagnosed with a feeding disorder and a failure to thrive as a baby. At age one, he couldn’t eat solid food and was severely underweight. A therapist had to come to the house five times per week to exercise his oral motor muscles. We managed to get enough calories in him without a feeding tube. But he still struggles, and only eats a few types of food: ravioli, pizza, chicken fingers, fries, and meatballs. He has never tasted a fruit or a vegetable in his life. He won’t put them in his mouth. Sienna is the only kid who will eat anything. For my husband, I do my best to keep our dinners healthy and fun. The meat is grass fed, the chicken free range and organic. I use plenty of anti-inflammatory, anticancer turmeric and cumin. Our fruits and vegetables are pesticide free. I serve antioxidant-rich blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries for dessert. It’s a bit of a buzz kill.

I cook with stainless steel only. None of my cookware has Teflon or nonstick surfaces. I avoid aluminum foil. I am a supporter of Trash Cancer, Fran Drescher’s charity that educates people on how to lower the level of carcinogens in their home. I know it all sounds very obsessive and overprotective. Look, anyone can get hit by a truck or get cancer. You never know what’s going to happen. But, in my opinion, you can stack the odds in your favor by avoiding pesticides and chemicals in the food you eat.

I realize I’ve picked up a little of my father’s obsessiveness about food. But the only fad I follow is whole, organic, healthy. Like Dad, I take vitamins, including D and C, a multi, and fish oil supplements. We all do (except Veronica). I do loosen up and put out junk food for special occasions. If we have a Super Bowl party, I will serve Doritos,
even soda. (Not Coke, though. That stuff puts me over the edge.) We will do sliders and pigs in a blanket, although I think hot dogs are toxic. Nitrates are the worst.

They’re just four fairly normal kids in a fairly normal family. Now you know my secret: I
really
am a real housewife and real mother, not a reality character. How boring!

I
n season five of
The Real Housewives of New York City,
shortly after arriving in Saint Bart’s, I got into a screaming match with Ramona and Sonja and called them both “white trash.” White trash? Really, Aviva? God, who is that bitch, that shrieking banshee? I know one thing. It’s not me. It couldn’t be. I don’t speak to people like that. I’m a good person, devoted to family and public service. I try to be sensitive, tolerant, kind, generous, and loving. Did I really just call those women “white trash”? It couldn’t be me.

All right, it
was
me. Well, not
me
, per se, but me in an altered state. I did argue; I did fight; and I did call them by that vile phrase. How do these things happen? I was trying to preserve my dignity, and oopsy—I blew it. For myself at least.

I could give you a number of lame excuses—excuses that are true, mind you, but excuses nonetheless. And frankly, there really isn’t any
excuse for my behavior. I’m ashamed of myself. I apologized and tried to make things right on the reunion show in hopes that Ramona and Sonja could forgive me. The good news is that I was brought back for another season of
Housewives
.