Mommywood

by Tori Spelling

  Jenny’s husband, Norm, was dressed as a surgeon. They have three kids and they still got it together enough to dress up. Thank God for Jenny and Norm. My faith in humanity was restored.

  The rest of the party was my gays: Mehran, Gueran, Bill and Scout. I’ve never been able to get Mehran into a costume, and I’ve been trying since we were fifteen. As far as Mehran is concerned, Halloween is the one day of the year when he has a valid excuse to wear black eyeliner. That’s his “costume.” Black eyeliner. He’s so psyched. I knew Bill and Scout wouldn’t come in costume, but I hoped they’d at least suit up in the bacon and eggs costumes I provided. And they did. They kept the costumes on for a whole thirty minutes. I was impressed. Gueran promised that he’d wear some fabulous costume showcasing his impressive package, but he came through the door carrying said costume in a tied-up plastic grocery bag and left with it in the same bag, unworn.

  Our doorbell was starting to ring. Oh boy! It was time. Jack and his buddies asked if they could man the candy distribution, and our motley group of many grown-ups and a few token kids headed out to trick-or-treat. I’d wanted a house with a kid-friendly neighborhood, and now I had it in spades. We opened the door to madness. Couldn’t you have guessed? Beaver Avenue was Halloween Central. Another neighborhood perk. The block was churning with screaming kids in every costume known to man, sprinting from decked-out house to decked-out house. It looked like the L.A. riots had returned, except this time the rioters were all three feet tall and dressed as Power Rangers. Girls were stopping Cinderella (Jenny) for her autograph. Candy and abandoned costume accessories were scattered on the ground. The street was as crowded as an amusement park on a Saturday. It was crazy. Liam had no idea what was going on. Dean carried him to the house next door, knocked on the door, and said, “Trick or treat!” Our neighbor handed Liam some malt balls. Aha! A light went on. Liam squirmed out of Dean’s arms and tore off down the block without us, a fearless little bee darting in and out of houses asking for candy. But he was only one and a half. He couldn’t focus on his mission—or anything—for very long. Soon enough he got distracted by the pretty lights and the candy was forgotten.

  About half an hour later we hurried home to help out Jack with the trick-or-treaters, who were marching from house to house like ants at a picnic. Back inside, Liam held out a lollipop to me to unwrap. Without thinking, I opened it up and handed it back to him. Sara’s daughter, Emma, stared at me with wide eyes and immediately turned to her mother, saying, “I want a lollipop too!” Sara shot me a look that said, “She’s never had a lollipop before, but now I kind of have to give her one.” Oops. Emma wanted her first lollipop, and it was my fault. It hadn’t even occurred to me to be careful of what the other kids would want, much less to withhold Liam’s lollipop. Believe me, when it came to lollipops, this wasn’t Liam’s first day at the races. I apologized to Sara and thought, Great, I’m that mom. The one who didn’t think twice about feeding her small child sugar on a stick and corrupted her friend’s child.

  I had never handed people candy before, but I threw myself into the front door job. Holding out the big bowl of Snickers, M&M’s, 3 Musketeers, et cetera, I said, “Go ahead! Take two or three! Take more!” “Take more” had an unexpected effect on the children. They plunged elbow deep into the bowl and scooped an armload into their bags. I looked down at the bowl. Whoa. It was half gone. But I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to be that house, the one the kids whisper about as they pass one another on the sidewalk. No wonder we ran out of candy so many times.

  Dean kept going back to the corner drugstore until they closed. I didn’t want to turn away trick-or-treaters! I was in the kitchen trying desperately to whip up some cupcakes when Mehran came in and said, “Lisa Macey is at the door.” He was joking. He had to be joking. Lisa was my friend in high school, but we were friends like Shannen Doherty and I were friends. That is to say, she was the alpha female and I was her little sidekick, doing whatever she told me to do.

  Lisa once dictated how I should dress, and her idea of fashion was oversized men’s sweatshirts, Doc Martens, and unbrushed hair thrown up on top of her head. She made me listen to rap; she was all into NWA. I hated rap! But I listened to it anyway. I may have been the only person in the world who listened to gangsta rap because I’d been told to. Lisa was the friend who’d say, “Let’s get in your car, drive down the block to the park outside your parents’, drink Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers, and smoke cigarettes.” She made me feel like I had to smoke if I wanted to be in the cool group. Worst of all, she made me smoke Marlboro Reds.

  Once Lisa was running down the hall of our house. Nanny told her to stop, and Lisa ignored her. When Nanny told her to be respectful, Lisa said, “You can’t tell me what to do.” To Nanny! I never talked back to Nanny. And from the look on Nanny’s face when she told me about this encounter, I know there was more to it than that. Whatever Lisa said or did, after that day Nanny stated that she wasn’t allowed in our house anymore. Period. End of discussion.

  Why was I friends with someone who bossed me around and didn’t let me be myself? I guess Lisa was the precursor to the bad-boy boyfriends I would have until I met my first husband. She made fun of people. She was big and kind of scary. There was no reason I should have been with her. And now Mehran was claiming that she was at my door.

  There was one good thing about Lisa Macey. She introduced me to all my best friends. She went to my all-girls school but she lived in the Valley. Through her I met Jenny, Jennifer, Kevin, and Mehran, the people who are still my best friends today. As soon as high school ended we all stopped being friends with her—her reign of terror was over; we were free—but over the years she became our personal urban legend. Mehran would always be like, “Oh my God, Lisa Macey’s here,” to freak me out. So when I was in the kitchen trying to make cupcakes for the masses of trick-or-treaters and he said, “Lisa Macey’s at your door! She wants to say hi.” I was like, “Ha. Ha.”

  Mehran said, “No, I swear to God.” Still skeptical, waiting for him to shout, “Halloween Fools!” or whatever, I went into the front hall, and there she was. She was thin, pretty, and dressed like a girl. Actually, she was dressed like a witch, but a hip witch in all black with a cool leather jacket and a witch’s hat. She smiled sweetly. A few cute kids standing politely at her side said, “Trick or treat!” This was a girl who in high school thought everything was bullshit and was always outside smoking. Now she was a lovely woman whose sister’s family lived a block away. She said, “I have car seats in my car now,” and we laughed. Here was Lisa Macey, who’d been so scary and different, whom we’d built into a nemesis. Now she was perfectly normal and nice. It was one of those moments that makes all the drama and angst of youth permanently dissolve into harmless memories. As she walked away she said, “Face-book me.”

  I looked around me at my half-costumed friends and out at the street, still a pleasant stream of sugar-addled kids. Whatever different struggles Lisa and I had gone through as kids, we’d come through. We’d found what we wanted and needed, and settled down to the lives we chose. I felt joyful and calm at the same time. This was it, the Halloween I’d dreamed of.

  After Lisa left, Halloween felt over. My cupcakes never quite happened, it was 9:30, and we had nothing left to offer. Besides, most of the trick-or-treaters at this point were either clearly on their second lap or over six feet tall, dressed in T-shirts, and plainly too old for trick-or-treating. We admitted defeat and shut off the lights. Liam and Stella were long asleep. Our friends took their sleepy, sugared-out kids home, and I went upstairs to begin the long process of extracting myself from my bee costume. As I undressed, Dean made some comment about how stripper bee wasn’t such a ridiculous idea after all. I took one last look in the mirror at the yellow and black false eyelashes and winked at myself. Those eyelashes were too good.

  Mommywood on Vacation

  Halloween felt like one of those milestones I’d always imagined when I pictured being a mother, and another
one was on the horizon. It was time for us to take our first vacation as a family of four, minus cameras. The photo that you’d see in a magazine would be me, Dean, Liam, and tiny Stella relaxing poolside. But nothing’s as simple as it looks in magazines. There are perks and drawbacks to being famous, and they all came to play on our trip.

  When Stella was born, Dean and I went back to work without a break, so by the time the end of the show’s season rolled around, we were dying for a vacation. At first I thought we’d go someplace far away and exotic. We initially considered Maui, but that seemed a little too ambitious. Then we talked about Cabo, a much shorter flight, but Stella seemed too young to go to Mexico. Finally we settled on the desert. A two-hour drive from home. Perfect—it didn’t really matter where we went first, so long as we were all together as a family.

  We were taking the two babies and Patsy, which meant a two-bedroom suite, so I emailed a couple of publicists to find out if I could get a good rate. Yes, I confess I dropped my own name, hoping that would get me a discount. I’m not proud. There are some minuses to living a very public life; this was one of the pluses. Almost immediately after I sent the email out, I got a response from one of the publicists. She said that we could have a completely free vacation at a nice-looking resort in the desert if we posed for one family picture and did an interview with OK! magazine. The poolside photo—the one you see in magazines—that’s how it sometimes comes about. Seems like a no-brainer, right? You definitely couldn’t beat that rate. (Well, I guess they could pay us, but let’s not go overboard here.) But this was our first family vacation. Exposing my life to the press is part of how I make a living, but I have to draw the line with my family somewhere. All I wanted was a true getaway. And a discount if possible. I wrote back saying thanks anyway but that we were happy to pay. This was a family trip and we really didn’t want to do any publicity.

  On the Friday that our vacation was to begin, Dean had some phone interviews to do, so I left him at home and headed out with the children and Patsy. After about half an hour on the freeway, Patsy and I realized that a little black car was following us. A paparazzo. Definitely one of the minuses of celebrity life. If I slowed down, he slowed down. If I sped up, he sped up. If I switched lanes, he switched lanes. It’s creepy being chased like that. The natural impulse is to try to get away. I pulled off on the left shoulder and waited there with my hazards on. I thought he’d zoom by, but he pulled over too. I tried various lane-changing tricks and maneuvers, but every time I looked in the rearview mirror, there he was, my unwelcome companion. This went on for a good hour, and then I saw it. My opportunity for escape. I was in the carpool lane on the far left. A big truck was driving along in the lane next to me. I sped up, pulled out in front of the truck, zoomed across all four lanes of the highway, and screeched off the first exit ramp I saw. Patsy didn’t say anything, but out of the corner of my eye I saw her braced against the dashboard for dear life. It was not exactly the safe driving I wanted to model for my young children, but I saw no other way to shake him. And honestly I don’t know what’s less safe—driving aggressively for a moment or allowing a persistent stranger to track us all the way to our destination.

  When I caught my breath I looked around and saw that we had exited in West Covina. Patsy took a deep breath and wiped her brow, but my adrenaline was still pumping. I was sure that the paparazzo had taken the next exit (East Covina? Central Covina?) and was speeding back to West Covina to hunt us down. It was a sketchy neighborhood (well, sketchy by my admittedly warped standards), so I pulled into the parking lot of the first wholesome place I saw—a school—to hide from our pursuer. Hiding there in our Range Rover. Because there were so many other Range Rovers in the West Covina school parking lot. Very subtle.

  Stella started screaming. When she started, Liam joined in. Worst singing duo ever. At first I thought Stella was rightfully protesting my driving technique, but when I checked on her I saw that she had a huge poop. A major poop. I’m talking poop up the puss. I swear it was all the way up to her belly button. I know I always wanted a baby girl, and I was beyond thrilled to have Stella. But one incontestable benefit to the boy baby is that there is no such thing as poop up the puss. Patsy comforted Liam while I changed Stella’s diaper in the front seat of the car. It was a hundred degrees out. We’d been in the West Covina parking lot for half an hour. I texted Dean, “We’re hiding from a paparazzo in some random neighborhood and Stella has poop up the puss.” Well, I used the standard texting abbreviations, like PUTP.

  At last the coast—and the poop—were clear. The children were calm again and we got back on the road and made our way to the resort. Upon our arrival we found that we’d been upgraded to the presidential suite. Awesome! Instead of the small split room we’d booked for us and the single for Patsy, we now were the lucky residents of an enormous three-bedroom suite, with a private pool, a Jacuzzi, and its own garage. It felt like a trade-off for the paparazzo: he was the burden that came with who I was, and the upgrade was the benefit.

  Liam loves hotels. As soon as we walk into a hotel room he does a little happy hotel dance. When I was a child I always liked small, cozy places, but when Liam burst into that huge suite, he was psyched. He was especially fascinated with the bedposts. He’d never seen bedposts before. He stared at them for a good thirty minutes while we unloaded the car and fed Stella.

  Dean eventually arrived. A little room service, a movie or two on the DVD player, and we all settled down for our first night of vacation. There were a few cockroaches on the sink, but we trapped them under glasses and didn’t worry about them. We were in the presidential suite. I’m sure they were the classiest cockroaches the resort had to offer. We weren’t about to complain.

  Who traps cockroaches but doesn’t kill them? I’d never dealt with cockroaches before. It was our first night in a new place. Killing them seemed like a bad omen. I wouldn’t let Dean do it. Of course, the next day the cockroaches had escaped. I just hoped they would go home to their friends and relations, tell the tale of their night of horror, and stage an exodus, far from the glass cages of the presidential suite. Anyway, that morning Dean and I had more important things to worry about. We were on a mission: Target. We needed a few critical items. You know, food and beverages for the fridge. Diapers. Movies. Toys for Liam. Toys for Stella. Pool toys for Liam. A portable swing for Stella. A ride-on truck for Liam. More food and beverages. Elaborate floating devices that could save us all in case of a hurricane. We spent a solid two hours stocking up at Target. By the time we were done we could have moved to the desert.

  For a while we saw no need to leave our presidential suite. You know how the president just stays at the White House or Camp David and doesn’t go out much because everything’s there already? It was like that. There was room service. There were TVs. A full-sized pool. Beds. And a bomb shelter’s worth of supplies from Target. The first few days flew by. I had an okay massage. We rented bikes—Dean’s had a little seat for Liam up front—and rode around the resort while Patsy and Stella followed behind in a golf cart.

  Eating at the restaurants wasn’t such a big success. Liam was always an easy baby. Patsy says she’s never had a baby as good—not even her own kids. He loved being out. He rarely cried. He never sent food back to the kitchen. We’d be in Europe at a fancy restaurant at ten at night after a long flight, and Liam would be there, chilling in his baby carrier. Airplane trips, crowds, flashing lights? No problem. Liam was always game to hang out and take it all in. Stella? Not so chill. She doesn’t want to be held or rocked sitting down. No, sir. Princess Stella would like you to walk. Maybe it’s because I was so crazy busy when I was pregnant. She got used to constant movement. Whatever the reason, you can’t just sit at dinner holding her. Princess Stella must be carried around, and as soon as you try to sit down, she wakes up and starts screaming. Her face turns bright red and her little legs go all rigid.

  The one night we tried to eat at one of the restaurants, Liam got obsessed with the Bavari
an music at another restaurant downstairs and refused to stay put. Dean ordered some food to go and the two of them went off to hear the music. I stayed back, thinking maybe Stella and I could have a mother-daughter dinner, but I ended up walking Stella around the restaurant instead of eating or feeding her. That was when I first realized that having children at dinner is the best diet plan I know.

  The next morning I had a moment of fear when Dean put Liam in the hot tub. I was pretty sure kids under ten or twelve or twenty or something weren’t supposed to go in hot tubs. Liam usually splashes around in the pool, but in the hot tub he sat on the top step, looking spaced out and mellow. I was trying to be cool, but finally I couldn’t take it anymore. What was the hot tub doing to my little boy? I said to Dean, “How do we know that his insides aren’t cooking?” Dean said, “He’s just relaxing.” But Liam was so dopey, I thought maybe his system had already started shutting down. I was certain we were making Liam soup. I said, “Liam! Liam! Look at Mama,” and prodded him gently, but he didn’t respond. I knew it! Organ failure! I swept him out of the hot tub. Liam immediately came to life and started screaming, “Water, water!” He flailed and struggled to get back in the tub. When I put him back in the hot water, he instantly relaxed again. The kid has a stressful life; should have known he needed his spa time.

  Liam is a water baby. So long as we were in the pool, he was happy. But eventually we thought it would be nice for him to have contact with other children out in the general pool.

  It was a hot, sunny desert day. The main pool wasn’t too crowded, just a nice bunch of families, with kids jumping around between the big pool and the kiddie pool. Some parents were relaxing, some were in the water with their kids. If there were child-free people at the resort, they were definitely segregating themselves from the Marco Polo culture of the main pool.