Now, staring at the little plus sign, all I could say was “Shit.” Given the beloved, beautiful, brilliant daughter that would result, I feel terrible even writing that now—God knows I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I hopped in the Honda Accord I’d traded up for in Miami and drove to Williams & Connolly. When I walked into Jay’s office in the middle of the day, he was surprised to see me.
I cut to the chase. “I can’t believe it. I’m fucking pregnant.”
His face lit up instantly. Jay was thrilled—until he saw that I was borderline apoplectic. We both really wanted a family, but now? Just when my career was taking off?
I stewed for a week and finally got used to—even excited about—the idea. The way things were going, if I had delayed getting pregnant until there was a lull in the action, I never would have had children. It really was such a lucky mistake. But who knew if NBC would be on the same page?
I WASN’T SHOWING, AND I wasn’t telling.
As national correspondent, I still covered the Pentagon. It seemed like the bathrooms were several miles away. Add morning sickness and bladder-control issues, and it felt like they were in the next state. I’m sure some of the generals and their staff strutting down the cavernous hallways wondered about the girl they often saw sprinting to the head.
One day, after devouring a package of Twizzlers, I was at a stop sign just a few blocks from our apartment when suddenly I projectile-vomited all over the dashboard and steering wheel. I pulled into the circular driveway and called Jay, who was already home, on my clunky mobile phone. My voice trembling, I said, “I just threw up all over my car.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll come down and clean it up.”
I had never felt so loved.
19
I Am Woman
THE TODAY SHOW was in limbo. Then came the mother of all photo shoots: For an interview with People magazine during her maternity leave, Deborah posed for celebrity photographer Harry Benson while breastfeeding her new baby. It was a lovely, tasteful picture, but this was 1991 and the network definitely was not jiggy with it.
There was a growing clamor in the press that I was being groomed to replace Deborah: “Will Katie Couric Be Deborah Norville’s Substitute—or Successor?” said TV Guide. “Today Show Plots to Replace Debbie with Katie,” declared Star. It was all very flattering, but I couldn’t imagine what must have been going on in Deborah’s head with all of this swirling around her. Now she was home with a new baby—what should have been a magical time—probably wondering if she still had a job.
Following the homewrecker narrative Deborah had （unfairly） been written into, I was a very different kettle of fish. Not a bombshell by any means; more Mary Ann than Ginger, and that was on a good day. I didn’t look like I’d shown up at the party to steal your husband.
The first big piece about me ran in the Washingtonian, my hometown magazine. Reporter Barbara Matusow spent the day with me. We did a long interview over lunch, and she reached out to some of my friends. There is nothing quite as nerve-racking as having someone analyze your every move and utterance for a profile. No matter how charming you try to be, everything is filtered through the POV of the writer, and for whatever reason, she or he may just not be that into you. Furthermore, writers don’t want to be accused of doing a “puff piece.” They love to find the wart in the story, and I lived in terror wondering what mine would be.
Jay was visiting NBC when we finally got hold of a copy. I paced the halls near the deserted studio as he read it. When he finished, he looked up and said, “What were you worried about, silly? It’s a home run!”
I exhaled. I would have settled for a double.
IN EARLY MARCH 1991, I was summoned to the office of Michael Gartner, president of NBC News. The bow-tied former editor of the Des Moines Register had a no-nonsense Midwestern style that may have been better suited to River City than 30 Rock. After exchanging pleasantries, he looked me in the eye and changed my life with these words: “I’d like you to replace Deborah on the TODAY show.”
It may not have been a total surprise, but still, it was an out-of-body experience. All the naysayers in my career flashed before my eyes.
“Wow,” I said. Holy crap, I thought.
And then suddenly—I don’t know where it came from—I channeled my inner Helen Reddy and said, “I’m really only interested in this job if Bryant and I split the big interviews 50/50. I don’t want to be relegated to cooking segments and fashion shows.”