Where's My Award?: How to Get Baby Barf out of a Red Carpet & Other Tales from a Working Mom in Hollywood

By Margot Black

Where's My Award? is a refreshingly candid, heart-felt and humorous look at being a working mom in Hollywood and a love letter to working moms everywhere. Written by Margot Black, former stand up comedian turned PR and media professional, Where's My Award? offers a unique insight into the daily struggle that working moms face daily told against the glamorous backdrop of Hollywood, celebrity and the business/career of public relations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996950510

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Chapter 1

Best Special Effect

Managing a media event eight weeks after having a baby seemed like a fine idea three months before my baby was born. I’d never had a baby, and the woman who subcontracted me for the job had never had a baby either.

She was kindly and generously trying to give me work after a period at home with my newborn, and even my stepmother, who would also be working with me on the project, said it seemed like a fine idea.

No, my stepmother had never had a baby either.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, then I had a baby.

Suddenly leaving my womb-like home for the insanity of a Hollywood press event seemed like the worst idea ever.

Nothing could have prepared me for the experience of pregnancy, childbirth, or that bit after—you know, the new life where I had to adjust to the biggest change a person can experience, and manage to keep an infant alive.

First, birth. WTF?

A lot of people refer to childbirth as a miracle. It’s pretty impressive, but I don’t know if I’d consider it a miracle as much as a case of really bad architectural planning. It’s like cramming Hagrid into Frodo’s house and calling it a divine act of intervention.

And while I’m on this short tangent, on the subject of vaginas to be precise, let’s have a little chat about pain, shall we? Whoever considers natural childbirth is a flat-out masochist. Don’t even come near me looking for some Crunchy Granola Mom Merit Badge because you have a high tolerance for pain. I think you’re a freak. Why suffer more than necessary? Your kid is going to be on drugs at some point in their life; mother and child might as well get off to a good start.

But back to my massive life adjustment. I work for myself, so I didn’t have the liberty of an empty head at any stage of my pregnancy, pre- or postbirth. No one was paying me to enjoy maternity leave, and leading up to my son’s birth, I was blissfully unaware of what lay ahead. Business was attended to and clients were serviced.

Even as I was being wheeled into surgery for my unexpected cesarean procedure, I could hear my phone beeping like a little baby crow.

Three and a half hours later, a work associate called me as I was coming around after the surgery. With no one else in the room, I picked up my phone. Clearly the self-employed publicist was still in me, even if my baby wasn’t.

On morphine, I answered Margot Black.

The person on the other end of the line said, What are you doing?

I just had a baby.

What are you doing picking up the phone?

I don’t know, I’m here on my own.

Are you on drugs?

I don’t know. I think so.

He asked me where he could locate a document. I told him. Then a nurse and my husband walked into my room, and I put the phone away.

Right there in that moment was my new reality, and if I thought it was about to get any easier, I had another think coming.

The event I had naïvely committed my exhausted new mom body and mind to was a state of Arizona travel journalist meet and greet. A hundred writers would fill a room to hear a dozen reps talk about Arizona and what they could offer tourists.

The lady in New York who’d given me the job told me they’d take care of the follow-up; all I’d need to handle was the site selection, the menu, inviting the first round of journalists, being there the day of the event, and troubleshooting on-site.

Eight weeks after having a baby, that would be alright, right?

I’d purposely gone to the Beverly Wilshire—famous for being the hotel where Julia Roberts and Richard Gere fell in love in the movie Pretty Woman—because I was assured they could take care of every detail. They didn’t, but more of that later.

Fortunately, my baby did me a great favor landing in the 1% of babies that arrive on their due date, and given that I am a detailed-oriented Virgo, he gave his mama a great gift.

My husband had been able to get a serious chunk of paternity leave, thanks to a combination of his generous employer and his unused leave, which meant the three of us had been living in a glorious spit-up bubble since the birth.

But now that the Arizona event was almost upon me, the thought of leaving our cozy home was making me feel super anxious. Where had Margot gone?

Here’s a secret. Yes, you have given birth, but you are also about to experience the biggest rebirth of your life. Everything is different.

I had almost no desire to be out in public, and weirdly, I was also feeling a great sense of loss. I needed someone to look after me, and yet I was about to go and take care of a hundred people. My balance was way off.

The reality was that I really could have used some mothering in that time but had none: my mother is dead, my dad lives in another state, and my mother-in-law was not available in that way. It also saddened me to notice that some people weren’t carrying their load.

I was keenly aware of who was taking advantage of my pregnancy-fuddled brain and who was stepping up. I had one attentive colleague, John, who I could rely on to translate my sleep-deprived, new mom, half of Vicodin, milk-sodden notes; attend to them without being checked up on; and turn them into gold. Others, not so much. But now I had no patience to mother anybody else but my child. The people who needed old Margot had to leave new Margot’s life.

But here’s an ironic twist: When I was pregnant, everyone was willing to help, including strangers. Men opened doors, women smiled sweetly, and everyone had advice. I’d be at the Urth café, and before eleven a.m., before I’d even drunk my fresh fruit smoothie, I would have had three conversations about my vagina and two about my breasts (natural childbirth, breast-feeding, practicing nipple attachment). When it’s just you and your bump—and you really don’t need the help—everyone wants to touch you and be around you. Bumps don’t cry. Bumps don’t barf. Bumps are so perfectly beautiful.

But once you have an actual baby and there’s the icky stuff—the laundry, the constant feeds, the dishes to be washed—there’s a dearth of help. Thanks, guys!

In my home I was okay with that, but the thought of having to be somewhere on time and with all the baby machines working, I was becoming jittery.

And then there was my body.

Postbirth, I have major issues with evolution. If evolution is so great, every time a woman gives birth to a child, she should sprout another arm. Two are no longer enough for the job. Perhaps a woman would even pop another set of eyes in the back of her head as her kids grow up. Then I’d toast Darwin, assuming I had the strength to lift my glass.

Despite the lack of a third arm, my body changed. Stuff didn’t just sag; it slid.

I got in the car one day, and my husband said, You look hot. Is that a new bra you’re wearing?

Nope. It’s my seat belt.

With my baby came huge hooters—boobs so massive they wouldn’t even fit into Target bras. They grew faster than the population of Latin America. I had to go to one of those old lady bra shops where three German ladies with yard-long tape measures yelled at each other in front of my chest.

Inga told me that I was now a triple-D. Holy shit! I got me some porn-star titties. You know, the type you see in magazines like JUGGS. The unairbrushed kind. Mmmm, yeah, pretty. The only problem was these big new boobs came with a deflated basketball belly and the need to constantly wear librarian shoes.

That led me to another problem—I didn’t have any appropriate work clothes that fit. Fortunately, my dear girlfriend Mary Ellen, who works at Lotta Stensson’s boutique in West Hollywood, was kind enough to send me three jackets to borrow. They arrived with a bow that made me want to cry.

She asked me what size, and I said, As large as you can go. My boobs are enormous. She was incredulous so sent me the same jacket in small, medium, and large. I managed to fit into the large. Just. Barely.

It was a beautiful jacket; however, it looked awkward on me and wasn’t quite my style, but I was grateful for the loan.

I don’t know why it’s another cruel joke that your feet swell in pregnancy. None of my cute pointy toe shoes that have been my PR uniform for the last decade, fit me. I had to shove my giant beasty elephant stubs into shoes that were now a size too small.

But I can’t wear flip flops to a work event or my usual two-inch kitten heels that I can usually stand in all day, so now I’m in sensible old lady flats, with a jacket that’s not quite my style. Nothing feels right. And I’ve got an inch of roots because, apparently, I’m not a natural blonde any more.

Getting the baby fed, and getting myself fed, showered, dressed, and out the door while suffering from overwhelming night-feed tiredness is enough to knock me sideways. I’m wobbly. It’s hard to feel professional, and I’m not quite over my C-section pain.

I’m also poignantly aware that this is the last week I will be able to spend this precious time with my husband and baby in this unique space. It’s his last day of paternity leave.

I loved, loved, loved being at home at this time, this beautiful time with my husband and newborn, and now I’m cutting the cord and about to venture into the crazy, noisy jungle of real life.

My stepmother, who is a highly accomplished publicist in her own right, is helping me with this event, and as she talks to me in the car en route to the hotel, I can feel my breasts pulsating.

Driving down La Cienega, barely two hours since I pumped, I can feel my boobs swelling up like huge watermelons. I’ve got five hours to go, and I can hardly comprehend how this day is going to play out.

Yes, I have a state-of-the-art breast pump with me, but I’m scared. Friends have since said to me since that I immediately seemed comfortable with my baby. I was, but what I was super uncomfortable with were all the machines and paraphernalia that goes with newborns. The breast pump, the stroller, the car seat— all that stuff made me anxious.

My cousin, who’d had a baby and also went back to work, told me to be careful with my breast milk and boobs whilst out in public. She’d once worn a silk blouse with breast pads to a meeting but they started leaking.

So I’d shoved two breast pads down there. I seriously could not risk leaking into a $700 borrowed jacket.

As my stepmom talks, I nervously drive a route I’ve been along a thousand times. She asks me if I can remember this and remember that. To steal from Nora Ephron, I remember nothing. I feel exceptionally vulnerable.

This is a weird transition and my first time experiencing it. I don’t want to leave my snug home to take care of a hundred other people. When you hold your baby there’s an intense pull; you long for it and want more. Suddenly, to be pushed into a chaotic world is an insane juxtaposition.

I don’t feel it, but I now understand what postpartum depression is: you need to be taken care of. A baby came out of your body. And what BS is it that celebrities are judged in People magazine for their post-baby bikini bodies eight weeks later? It’s moronic. They must cry themselves to sleep every night.

My career has seen me attending to others’ needs divinely and shining light on other people for years, but now I could use a little help myself. So for every detail that I knew about every journalist coming to the event, for every to-do list, for every detail that my stepmom is reminding me about, I’m really just thinking about my own little baby bubble.

We get to the hotel, and after a few minutes inside, my heart sinks because nothing is happening properly. Even though I’ve done my run-throughs and pored over the contracts with the hotel management before my baby arrived, there’s no signage, the ballroom isn’t properly set, and the client is already crabby. She has a bunch of complaints, and it’s my job to make it right.

I can also tell that she’s not happy with where she is in life. She’s rail thin, single, and uptight. We’re coming at this from completely opposite ends of the spectrum.

Then another obstacle presents itself. The hotel is hosting an ostentatious million-dollar Persian wedding, which is quickly sucking the resources out of the hotel. As if that’s not enough, there’s a big celebrity event transpiring. Limos are stacking up, management are in a frenzy, and the paparazzi are outside in packs. The state of Arizona is low on the list.

My invited press are arriving for the speeches, and my client rushes up to me, all red-faced and fractious. She’s not happy with the skirting on the tables where they’re serving Arizona’s signature prickly pear margaritas. Also, the crudités platters are not circulating widely enough.

While this is a tiny event for the hotel, it’s huge for us. I need to get this fixed. I need to ninja complain and fast. Where are my signs? Where are my people? I’m happy to make my presence felt but the pressure inside my boobs is starting to worry me. I’m so uncomfortable and terrified I might leak.

There’s no way I can delay, I need to go pump.

I grab my working-lady, seriously-on-the-go, top-of-the-line breast pump backpack and head to the bathroom. The backpack is very chic—all zips and pockets and snappy branding—but in this moment, who cares? I’m not sure what I envisioned when I knew I’d be using it—dashing through airports breast pumping as I catch a flight to NYC or some similar kind of BS they sell to new moms? But chic I am not.

Side note: aside from my leaky breasts, I also seem to have lost the ladylike ability to hold in my farts and make them come out quietly. I simply cannot fart under the radar. I do not know what is happening, but they have a mind of their own. They’re Golden Girl farts. Either I can’t find the muscle or I’ve lost the muscle. There’s no warning. Being gassy in public is mortifying to me, but I cannot stop it. I’m gassy and almost leaking in public. Hello, motherhood!

My boobs are now throbbing so hard they could play bass for Guns N’ Roses.

I have a light bulb moment as I make my dash for the restrooms. I see two guys who work for the hotel and palm them $40 each to help me troubleshoot. They’re instantly at my disposal.

Then, right there in the lobby, I see the perky Persian doll–like princess bride appear. She’s perfect, and I’m a seeping mess. But it’s okay. I know what’s on the other side of her wedding day. I was also perky perfect and beautiful when I was married but now I’ve been through the life blender, and if she’s as lucky as me, she’ll also have leaking breasts one day.

Honestly, even in this challenging moment, I would never want to go back, but a handbook would be useful right now. I remember before I had Jett, in the final trimester, my stepsister said to me, You should go have a manicure, a long lazy lunch, and read a book. You won’t have much time for yourself for a few years, and I thought, Well that’s silly. But now I’m starting to get a glimpse of what she meant.

One of the enormous restrooms at the Beverly Wilshire is divided into a communal space and private cubicles. I lock myself into a cubicle and get the expensive, top-of-the-range breast pump out of my unnecessarily chichi backpack.

Shit. There isn’t an outlet for me to plug it into. I hadn’t thought of that. Can you die from boobs exploding?

I look at the useless breast pump. My boobs hurt. Leakage is imminent. I remove my borrowed $700 jacket.

I’m needed at the ballroom, but in this moment, I do not know what to do. I can’t afford a $550-a-night room. Would they lend me a room? I don’t know. I can’t think straight. I’m exhausted and overwhelmed. I’m working on less than four hours a night sleep for the last eight weeks. Now I understand how sleep deprivation can be an effective prisoner-of-war tactic.

I slide down the wall and onto the floor of the bathroom at the Beverly Wilshire. The marble tiles are freezing cold. Here I have my first sobbing moment of motherhood.

In a brief moment of clarity I realize that a lady at the breast pump store had given me a hand-held pump.

I leave the cubicle and use the counter of the communal area to rummage through my stupid designer backpack. I’m still sobbing as I try to figure it out. The lady at the Pump Station made me buy it. She told me to take it for emergencies. So for $27, this little hand-held gadget is now my saving grace.

A plus-size grandma-looking lady walks in and sees my tears and panic. Are you okay, honey? she asks with a Southern drawl.

I almost fall into this stranger’s arms. I’m so scared and tired. Instead, I tell her my story. She smiles knowingly and tells me that she’s had six kids. In a flash she’s assembled the $27 pump. Her presence has calmed me, so I head back into a cubicle and finally pump milk. My breasts stop throbbing and my brain starts working.

When I come out of the bathroom, one of the guys I’ve palmed is discreetly waiting for me with a shot of tequila.

Drink this, Mamacita, he says. He tells me that he’s got a wife with three kids.

Does it help? I ask.

Tequila helps with everything, he smiles. I seriously want to douse my tits in it, but I knock back a shot, knowing I’ll dump the next round of milk. I am so grateful for this village appearing out of nowhere.

Returning to the ballroom, one of the journalists, whom I’ve known for years, exclaims in shock when she sees me. Oh my God, Margot, what are you doing here? You just had a baby!

I tell her that it seemed like a good idea at the time. A mother of two, she hugs me.

Another light bulb moment: from now on, I will only take advice from other working moms.

Problems are solved. The skirting on the cocktail tables is fixed, the canapés circulate, the speakers speak and my client calms down. Someone from the hotel appears, apologizes, and whips all left into shape.

Around nine p.m., we have a team debrief and my stepmom tells me she’s seen a lovely piece of jewelry in one of the lobby boutiques. She wants to shop; I just want to get out of there.

My old self would have happily accompanied her, but reborn me is calculating how to feed my child and get some sleep because I know I will be up three hours later. I’ve probably had six hours sleep in three days, so if I can work an eleven p.m. feed, he might sleep until three a.m. I simply can’t go into the gift shop. I can’t.

My stepmom will get to sleep off this week, and I’m poignantly aware that there’s no more sleeping off for me. I’ve slept off press trips, boat trips, parties, stand-up, and touring, but now that’s no longer an option. Normally I would indulge her—she wants to buy a gift for me—but here’s a chasm. I’m moving among Martians; I’m the new me doing an old job. Nothing quite fits.

Looking back, writing this, I want to hug myself. It’s amazing what you put yourself through at such an important time in your life. Three days before my son’s birth I was showing a client from Chile around LA. It was a Wednesday. My water broke on Saturday. My belly was bigger than the Hollywood Bowl. I could barely fit into the driver’s seat (and the client had to help me out of the car), but I drove him to one of the hotel venues he wanted to view.

The room coordinator, a lithe, heavily mascara’d blonde in four-inch skyscraper heels, glared at me in horror.

Is that what the end of pregnancy looks like?

She was cranky because I couldn’t walk fast. Suck it, sister.

As we’re leaving the Beverly Wilshire, the manager finds me and apologizes for the problems we’ve had (and that cost me $80 to fix). My client was picky, but I get it: she wanted the job done well. So did I.

I need to leave, but suddenly a giant limo pulls up and the paparazzi go crazy.

Out of nowhere, Julia Roberts walks across the lobby with her entourage, towards the waiting limo. I’d read that she’d also just had a baby, but I see no evidence of leaky breasts, fat feet, or eye bags. She has smooth skin, shiny hair, and a waist.

She smiles at everyone she passes. Julia Roberts in the Pretty Woman hotel? It’s a perfect Hollywood moment. The atmosphere is electric. People stand with their mouths open. The power of the A-lister is like nothing else on earth.

Goddamn it, how does she look so good? Ah yes, money. She has every resource piles of cash can afford. A night nurse, a makeup artist, a stylist, and I’m damn sure she’s not pumping on a cold bathroom floor. Richard Gere would have run a mile from that hot mess.

She can also clear her schedule for a year or two to concentrate on her kids. That would have been nice. Also, she looks so fresh. I can’t get over how bright and clear her eyes are. After Jett was born, my husband handed me a tiny box. I’d heard of push presents, but I’m sure that Rob wouldn’t have a clue about the trend for post-birth baby gifts. I thought he’d bought me diamond earrings or a necklace, but wrapped up in that little box was expensive eye cream. I’d been complaining I looked tired, but even so I was disappointed.

Husbands, here’s a top tip: be careful of giving ladies gifts in small boxes. Although, to be fair, that wasn’t as bad as my girlfriend, whose husband told her to get dressed up for a special day out. She waxed, buffed, and polished, only for him to present her with a gun and a day at a shooting range because he was about to spend a long time away from home and wanted her to feel safe.

Driving home, I’m desperately tired and almost hallucinating but also dying to see my baby and hug my husband.

Cradling my baby an hour later, I realized that the hooker in Pretty Woman had found her Cinderella moment and that I’d also found mine.

You want to know why they never made a sequel to Pretty Woman? Because Leaky Woman doesn’t quite have the same appeal.

I don’t know if I’d call the day the biggest success of my professional career, but I survived. And better still, so did the $700 jacket.

But I realize in this moment that I have entered an entirely new working mom world. I have no guidebook. No roadmap. No clothes that fit. I am about to join the biggest, most powerful army of unpaid champion soldiers holding up the world today