Melissa Explains It All: Tales From My Abnormally Normal Life (12 page)

When Mom had me, she was all about peace, love, and lactation. She was a ’70s hippie, which was proudly marked by her bell bottoms, feathered hair, and the fact that she advocated for the natural benefits of breast-feeding over factory-made formulas. She loved having and feeding babies so much that she went on to have and feed six more over the next twenty-one years—six of them, without drugs during delivery. She basically spent her entire twenties in and out of the hospital maternity ward, and yet when she wasn’t pregnant, her stomach was flat and she never weighed more than 110 pounds. I wonder if all that breast-feeding was her calorie-burning trick, because she’s never been on a diet or owned a gym membership. One of my favorite things is watching Mom’s face change when strangers ask her how many kids she has.
No way,
they say.
You look amazing
. And that’s all it takes for Mom’s expression to go from looking calm and controlled to unveiling a slow, knowing grin that spreads across her cheeks and reminds me of when the Grinch steals the Whos’ roast beast in that Dr. Seuss cartoon. Mom’s been fielding this comment for more than thirty years, yet every time she hears it, she gobbles it up like it’s her first time.

We were a very affectionate family when I was young, though more into snuggling than doling out messy kisses. And Mom was the one who kept us in line, ruling with a tender heart and an iron hand. She had a great amount of patience, but once she hit her limit—look out. She’d spank us with a wooden spoon and put us in “the naughty chair,” which felt like an eternity in exile. My sisters Trish, Liz, and I got a taste of this when we stayed up late making sure our Cabbage Patch dolls and Care Bears were safely tucked into bed; we were always preparing them for a disaster, like if the house caught fire or one of those famous Long Island tornadoes touched down. If Mom heard us giggling after she turned off the light, she’d burst into the room and let ’er rip. But we were only honing our protective Mama Bear instincts, which we learned from watching her.

Whenever I booked a job, she’d sneak on set and hang out in the back to keep a watchful eye on how I was treated. I was in a commercial with Doug Henning, a famous magician at the time, for the very first Chrysler minivan when I was seven years old. Mom overheard the director call me “the little girl in the red shoes” for three days in a row, so on the fourth, her claws came out.

“My daughter has a name,” she said in her best make-my-day voice. “It’s Melissa.”

Though Mom lost her patience on those who deserved it (she also went crazy on families who cut the line at Disney), she kept it together impressively well for someone who juggled as much as she did. Beyond managing our careers, she handled everything around the house, since my father worked never-ending hours in the shellfish business, then with his construction company, and then back to shellfish. Though Mom wasn’t a gourmet cook, we always had a decent breakfast on the table, lunch in a brown bag to bring to school, and a hot, balanced dinner with an occasional treat for dessert. She even experimented with making her own bread, which was always so warm and delicious next to the leg of lamb she’d cook for Dad but we kids detested. And while she was no Doris Day, Mom kept our house clean and comfortable, and expected everyone to do their part. We helped her dust, vacuum, take out the trash, wash the car, and weed the garden. Mom grew her own beautiful vegetables, and behind the corn, Dad planted rows of marijuana. They never smoked pot around me, but Mom and I did have open and honest discussions about her cannabis crop that made me uninterested in taking a toke of my own. Once I asked Mom what drugs she’d done and she told me, “Eh, I’ve tried them all, so you don’t have to. None were worth it.” She wasn’t bossy or “because I said so” about this; she was sharing her experience and hoping I’d learn from it. I took her at her word.

Mom was also very honest when it came to taboo topics like sex. When I was in fourth grade, I was riding bikes around town with my friend Joanne when we came across a
Playgirl
magazine lying on the side of the street. We went back to Joanne’s house, looked at the pictures, and split our favorites between us. I remember cutting out the tiny pictures of men with their big ol’ shlongs bursting through their assless chaps—super hot. When I got home, I speed-walked through the kitchen and past my mom, who was all the while yelling, “Hey, how was your day?” I thought for sure she must have known the secret burning a hole in my pocket, because I looked and felt so guilty and ashamed scurrying past her to my room. But I’ve always had a strong gut reaction to right and wrong, and this time was no different. I couldn’t imagine living with myself if I didn’t tell Mom what I was hiding. I quickly crept back downstairs and spilled the beans.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. “I have nudie pictures of men in my back pocket.”

I expected Mom to scream or yell at me, but it took her an eternity to react. And then: “How about you just give them to me, and we can forget this ever happened,” she said.

Seriously, that was it.

Mom’s reaction made me realize how much she trusted me to make the right decisions and come to her if I made a wrong one; she probably wanted to giggle, the way I did when my son recently pooped in a toy bucket and guiltily handed it over. But she’s always been candid with me and expected me to be the same with her, which I 100 percent have. I so vividly remember the hot-faced shame I felt that day, even if my indiscretion didn’t faze Mom, that I never wanted to have a guilty secret on my conscience again. Because I didn’t ever want to upset or disappoint her, I also took a huge parenting burden off her hands. She didn’t have to be a strict disciplinarian or overbearing nudge. I’d play that role for myself.

With Mom’s trust came freedom without much of a discussion, and I never abused that. Mom let me ride my bike to a friend’s house, stay at the park until the streetlights came on, or watch television at night once I finished my homework and chores. This kind of independence gave me and my siblings the confidence to know we’d make good choices on our own, and I rarely let her down. Mom counted on us to be reliable and independent, which worked out well, given everything that needed to get done.

But even with so much on her plate, Mom showed up to every childhood event I can think of. Though she’d never hoot or holler at games or school plays, she was always in the audience or background with a very proud smile. She was also just as straight with me about my weaknesses, though she rarely gave direct negative feedback. I sometimes wonder if that kind of withholding is what kept me guessing enough to always want to please her. If so, I’m often glad she did it because it pushed me a little harder to make an impression on her, and I think that explains some of my professional drive and eagerness to excel in general. The thing with my mom, though, is that once you’ve done something great, and she tells you, it feels so amazing because you’ve really earned it. Beyond my parents and siblings, the only other person whose opinion matters to me is my husband, Mark. And you know what? Flattery doesn’t come easy from him either. But when I’ve earned it, I know I’ve really done something terrific. (Mark swears he compliments me all the time and I ignore him, and maybe that’s true too; I tend to blow off most kind words as inauthentic and insincere.) They say you marry your dad, but I think I married my mom.

The only time I remember Mom being actively tough on me, as a kid or otherwise, is when she’d ask me how it went on an audition during our drive back to Long Island. If I said, “I don’t think I got it”—and if we were stuck in traffic or she’d had a rough day—she’d get pissed and tell me that’s it, we’re done with the business, because she was tired of me and my siblings wasting her time. She really believed in me, so it frustrated her when she thought I wasn’t trying hard enough to live up to the potential she saw. But usually after the outburst, I’d actually book the job and then we’d do it all over again. One of Mom’s biggest eruptions happened after I told her I thought I blew it with Mitchell on that third
Clarissa
audition. That’s when she said we were finished with acting for good. Thank God fate didn’t pay as much attention to Mom’s flare-ups as we did.

Lots of books have been written about the fuzzy boundaries and strange oversteps of moms and their little girls, and for me and my mom, ours mostly happened during the divorce. I think this may have been a natural progression from Mom having me in her twenties, which always led her to say we “practically grew up together!” She also didn’t have a lot of girlfriends her own age, the way I do now, and she always leaned most on family when she needed support. I suspect that both of these factors led to her treating me, more often than not, as a close friend. I couldn’t get enough of it when I was eight or ten, as she was pumping out babies and I was playing with dolls. But I was thirteen years old when she and Dad got a divorce. I already had hormones, work, a commute, and boys to deal with—I didn’t want to add moving, new schools, and all of Mom’s issues to that list of stressors. Besides, I didn’t know any real, live divorced people. My aunt Zippy was split and remarried before I was old enough to understand what happened, and my uncle Mark had four ex-wives, but he was a horny free spirit, so neither of them seemed to count. Other than them, I’d never watched a marriage fall apart or known any friends whose parents went through it, either.

Though Mom wanted me to be her confidante, or at least acted like she did, I was too young, angry, and selfish to be one. The only people I wanted to help were me and my siblings, because we were all on the receiving end of the chaos. We had that in common. I dealt by exploring the city, making new friends, decorating my room, and going shopping. And though Mom had always given me room to be independent, now I wished for her to be more hands-on. As Mom managed her new life as a single mother, she left me to make my own meals and pack my own lunches. It was to be expected at my age, but I still wanted her to take care of me in small ways.

She’d always kept close tabs on me and visited often when I was in Florida, but her monthly trips took an uncomfortable turn during the divorce. I spent hours listening to her gripe about Dad’s faults and why the marriage got stale—and not even for some massive reason like drug use, abuse, or infidelity, but because he wasn’t around enough, which, among other travesties, meant the dining room molding never got painted. It made me mad at Dad for being MIA and resentful toward Mom for splitting up our family. On top of it all, I didn’t want to endure these incessant couch therapy sessions, when I had fifty pages of dialogue to learn for work the next day.

Though I could occasionally step outside the situation to analyze my parents’ flaws, realize they were only human, and try to find some bright side to the whole mess, my overwhelming reaction was that of a typical adolescent. I used Mom’s words against her, felt comfortable talking back and acting out, and yelled at her when I felt she was skirting her responsibilities as a mom to my siblings. It was suddenly clear that Mom didn’t have all the answers I thought she did, because as she worked through the divorce, her flaws were on the table for everyone to see. And while I thought she deserved to have some fun with her new life and knew in my head that it took a lot of strength to divorce my dad and go after the life she wanted, my heart was still critical of her decisions because I wasn’t her friend or therapist or drinking buddy. I was her child.

*   *   *

It’s weird to think about this time in Mom’s life without talking about Nanny. She was my mom’s mother, and her best friend. Mom wanted a sister so bad but got three tough brothers instead, so she made Nanny her confidante. Even as an adult, Mom didn’t make a move without consulting her, since she always considered Nanny to be wise and unconditionally loving. She was our family’s matriarch for the first twelve years of my life, and when she wasn’t ruling her roost, she spoiled us grandkids at every turn. Nanny traveled a lot and brought us handkerchiefs, dolls, and currency from exotic locations like Yugoslavia and Russia, where we still had family (I think I inherited her travel bug). She and Papa, my grandfather, built us hope chests for our valuable possessions and made us a giant Victorian-style dollhouse, which I still have and cherish. Nanny also sparked my fascination with Shirley Temple, since she bought me my first collectible pin at a Long Island flea market.

Nanny died in October 1988. She suffered three strokes and went into a coma. Our family held nightly prayer groups, but after a few difficult days, Mom took her off life support. It took Mom years to recover from the loss, since Nanny was always her brightest guiding light.

I mention this now because most of the Harts agree that Mom never would’ve had the courage to leave Dad if Nanny were still alive when it happened. Mom seconds this. She would have eagerly turned to Nanny for advice, and Nanny would have sent Mom back to her unhappy marriage because, as she used to say, “Divorce is not part of my vocabulary.” But it seems that at this significant juncture for Mom, she needed to find her own way. To this day, we all hold Nanny in a very saint-like place in our hearts, and her name, Joan, will continue to be passed down through generations of our family (my mom, my cousin, and I all share the middle name Joan).

Mom definitely made the most of her journey toward discovering her new, grown-up self, especially since she never got to sow her wild oats when she was young. So despite having five kids between the ages of three and thirteen, she explored her new city, home, and men like the foxy broad she was. As I mentioned earlier, Mom made friends with a Broadway singer named Allan when she was on that cruise for my sister’s gig, so she invited him to be our seventh roommate, and his social life gave hers a head start. As an adult, I’m still not sure why Allan agreed to this arrangement—he couldn’t have found it too easy to bring men home to an apartment full of small kids and irritable teens!—though we all loved him and considered him part of our forever-changing family. And as Mom’s social Sherpa, Allan introduced her to lots of Broadway backup dancers and singers. Her best girlfriend, Ayn, was also part of this scene, so she was Mom’s partner in crime.