Melissa Gilbert’s complicated ‘Prairie’ life

“Mom, believe it or not, you are not the final authority on this issue.”

“I’m your mother,” she said. “And I’m Jewish.”

“But my birth parents” —

“We adopted you at birth.”

“Was there a conversion ceremony?” I asked.

“I don’t remember,” she said.

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“No?”

Video   Gilbert shares her ‘Prairie Tale’ June 9: Erin Burnett talks to actress Melissa Gilbert about growing up on the TV show “Little House on the Prairie,” her struggle with alcoholism and her new book, “Prairie Tale.” Today show

When it came to my childhood, my mother’s memory was more reliable than the Apple-S command on my laptop, so I knew she had the information filed away somewhere. I switched tactics. I asked if she remembered what I did for my second birthday. She did, and described the party she threw me. I then asked if she remembered my first birthday party. She recounted that, too, including the flavor of the cake and the bakery where she bought it.

“Mom,” I said with a dramatic pause worthy of the best courtroom lawyer, “you can remember my first and second birthday parties as if they happened an hour ago. But you can’t remember whether you hired a rabbi and had a conversion ceremony for me. How is that?”

“Melissa!”

“Mom!”

“Maybe I didn’t have one,” she said. “I don’t really know. What’s the big deal?”

“It means I’m not Jewish,” I said. “It means I’m not who I thought I was for all these years. It changes everything.”

* * *

OK, I exaggerated. It wouldn’t change everything. When I hung up the phone, I was still going to be me: dressed in sweats, juggling car-pool duties, going to meetings, planning dinner, trying to wedge more into my day than twenty-four hours permitted. In one sense, my life would be fundamentally unchanged.

However, in another sense, my inner compass had already started to spin wildly out of control. Was there a conversion ceremony? That was a simple question. Was I who I thought I was? Not such a simple question.

Welcome to my not-so-simple life. My mother, whom I love dearly, has continually revised my life story within the context of a complicated family history that includes more than the usual share of divorce, step-children, dysfunction, and obfuscation, and I’ve spent most of my adult life attempting to deconstruct that history and separate fact from fiction, especially as the facts pertain to … me!

For example, my mother was at the helm of everything, including my career, my food intake, and how I dressed — my whole life. I never questioned her or rebelled. Speaking out against the family was the ultimate form of disloyalty, and disloyalty was not tolerated. It was like the mafia. Although I never feared getting whacked, I was always just a little afraid of being sent back to wherever it was I came from.

So an interview back when I was ten years old is likely to have me saying that everything is wonderful, everyone in my life is fantastic, I am happy, and life is perfect. But most of that was untrue. Just as in an interview three months after my mom’s second husband suffered a brain hemorrhage I told a reporter that I had my crying moments, but I was pretty tough about that sort of thing.

The truth is that I never cried over my mom’s second husband. I was never close to him. I never liked him. I didn’t have any relationship with him. I was dragged to the hospital when he was sick to add cachét so the nurses would take better care of him. I know it was difficult for my mother, but I don’t remember being upset about anything at the time.

Could I say that to the press?  Absolutely not.

A large part of my life has been an illusion — not an illusion crafted through carefully controlled media, but more like light going through a prism in that there’s one story bent in numerous directions. There’s my mother’s version, there’s the one in the press, there’s the one I lived, and there’s the one I’m still trying to figure out.

However, there are some facts. For instance, I am a twice-married, now-sober former-child actor and mother of four. I acquired all those hyphenates by living the way I wanted to or needed to, hopefully with some grace and dignity. I made my share of mistakes, which I think of as the stones I stepped on to get to  where I am today, and through luck, hard work, serious reflection, and a desire to face the truth about myself, I ended up at a place where now I enjoy the peace that comes from allowing myself to not be perfect.

Such was not always the case. My mother, beautiful, delicate, and deluded, saw me as the pillar of perfection — and told me that I was the world’s best actor, the best wife, the best … at everything. I knew I wasn’t, but I lived my life as though I had to be the best lest I disappoint her.

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Today, I just want to be my best and I don’t fear disappointing anyone other than myself and my family. I’m in love with a good man, and my children are brave, funny, and compassionate people. I love the lines around my eyes, but I hate the way my cheeks are falling; I’m carrying around an extra ten pounds and enjoying it (most of the time). I suppose I am truly fat and happy.

I play drums, surf and meditate. I’m in a peaceful state of mind most of the time. Though I am lucky enough to earn a living at a job I love, I’m also thinking about going back to school to get my RN or LVN in end-of-life pediatric care. I’m much better going forward than backwards or sideways. I have no real plan, just general dreams.

It wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always at peace. I wasn’t always content to let life happen.

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