It always struck me how Jane Pauley took a back seat to Bryant. Why was he so clearly in charge of the show when she’d been there longer? I was keenly aware of how the media—TV shows, ads, billboards, magazine covers—conditions us to see gender roles a certain way. It’s where the seeds of implicit bias are sown. I realized how something as seemingly benign as a morning show could shape the perception of what a woman could do and be.
After some deliberation, Gartner said, “How about 49/51?”
Close enough—I’d made my point.
“Okay,” I said. “Oh, I almost forgot. I’m pregnant.”
Gartner bowed his head like a man who’d been played. “You have really lousy timing,” he said.
“So I guess you’re not going to be knitting me baby booties anytime soon,” I shot back with a smile.
Ultimately, Bryant would have it written into his contract that he was the anchor, I was the co-anchor, and he would open every show. It was also understood that only he could throw to Willard Scott. That seemed strangely territorial to me, but I could live with it. The bottom line: I was going to be a key part of this broadcast.
“YOU’RE MAKING HOW much?”
My dad was on the phone, marveling at my new mid-six-figure salary, probably picturing how different my life was going to be.
I guess you’d have called us solidly middle class. As kids, we were well taken care of—new shoes from Hahn’s in Clarendon every September, good winter coats from Woodie’s, birthday parties, Girl Scout camp. Vacations weren’t a given; my friend Sara Crosman’s family let me tag along with them to Disney World and Quoddy Head, Maine. It was such a treat when my family did get away, the six of us piling into the station wagon, eating the cream cheese and olive sandwiches my mom had made and carefully packed in a Lord and Taylor box by 9:00 a.m., heading to a hotel called Far Horizons on Longboat Key, off Sarasota. （My dad had met the owner, who I’m sure gave him a deal.） When I was 10, we rented a house for a week in Rehoboth Beach; it had a big porch out front with worn wicker furniture. I loved the boardwalk, where we got Thrasher’s french fries in paper cups and saltwater taffy at Dolle’s. At night, I could hear happy screams wafting over from Funland and see the top of the Ferris wheel from my bedroom window.
We didn’t belong to clubs—certainly not country clubs, but not even one of the local swimming pools. Instead, I’d go with my friends and pay the $3 guest fee, with enough left over for a frozen Milky Way from the snack bar. My mom was always coupon-clipping, bargain-hunting, and tracking our expenses, unfurling the grocery receipt and checking off each item with a pencil to make sure she’d gotten what she’d paid for.
When I went to the movies, she sternly reminded me not to buy candy, telling me the movie itself was enough of a treat. （One Saturday there was hell to pay when she found a Planters Peanut Bar wrapper in my snow jacket pocket after a matinee.） Sometimes my friends would pass me their empty popcorn buckets, knowing I liked to stick my face in and inhale the buttery scent. Since I looked so young, my mother had no problem letting me take advantage of the under-12 ticket price long after I was over 12. When my dad found out, he made her drive me back and pay the extra quarter.
My parents wanted us to understand the value of a dollar and be responsible with money. When Johnny finished at UVA, they set up a bedroom for him in the basement, installed a toilet and shower in the cold concrete laundry room, and charged him $200 a month. When he was finally ready to buy his own place, they gave it all back for him to use as a down payment, satisfied that he’d learned to live within his means.
Every year on our birthdays, Nana sent each of us a card with a $5 bill inside; we were expected to put it right into the college fund. Yet another lesson in saving and planning: Our parents so diligently socked away money for college that when the time came for us to choose one, they said we could go anywhere we wanted. They had it covered.
THE SKIN ON my belly was stretching tighter by the day. I craved creamed spinach and chocolate milk, which sounds like a revolting combination now.
As it turned out, being with child could not have come at a better time. NBC had already ditched beloved mother of three Jane Pauley; now they were pushing out new mom Deborah Norville. How convenient that they had another mom-to-be on deck.
The excitement of an impending birth only made the morning-show audience feel more connected to me. I was a bright, shiny symbol of a new breed of woman—happily, successfully merging career and family.