I made one halfhearted effort to find the stroller a good home: when we pulled up to the exit, I asked the cashier if he knew someone who needed a stroller. He spoke not a word of English. We were so late. We just left.
Downtown is a mess of one-way streets, all going the wrong direction. I had no idea how to get on the freeway. So I just drove, hoping to see a sign. Then I heard Liam cough. I looked back. “Are you okay?” He coughed again. Then he turned bright red. Was he choking? Was he having a seizure? Was he ODing from M&M’s? (Can you OD from M&M’s?) I was about to pull over (which should give you some idea of how panicked I was, since pulling over in downtown L.A. at night meant certain death as far as I was concerned), when all of a sudden Liam got distracted by a billboard with some animals on it and stopped. He was totally faking.
Then it was Stella’s turn. She started screaming and didn’t stop. It was excruciating. I knew from experience that with Stella and the car there were only two options: she’d scream the whole way, or she’d scream until she fell asleep. Stella screamed the entire way in bumper-to-bumper traffic. So much for the free Splendid outfits. They were adorable, but I doubt our ordeal was really worth it. It cost me a stroller, and even worse, ever since Liam met those M&M-feeding models, he demands candy—to the point of a tantrum—whenever he enters a clothing store.
That night, after Patsy’s party, when Dean and I were getting ready for bed, I broke it to him about the stroller. So my second shopping expedition wasn’t as successful as the first. But remember when I was too self-conscious to throw away the poop-covered swim towel at Liam’s swimming lesson? Well, I was making great progress in deserting expensive personal possessions. Okay, so that wasn’t my goal, but the point is that I was feeling more confident about my decisions. I was in charge, and even if my choices weren’t always frugal, at least I was starting to take the lead.
Our relationships with our children are always works in progress. I’ll never forget or let go of my concerns about being a mother, especially to a girl. In the back of my mind I’ll always be asking, How am I doing with Stella? Am I handling this right? Am I being competitive or judgmental? Our time together and how we spend it—even when she’s an infant—add up to the relationship we’ll have when she’s a grown woman. Not that she’ll remember her first year or two or, for that matter, which designers I showcased on any particular excursion, but whatever her first memories end up being, I want them to be fond and happy. I want her to think, I know my mom always loved me. She had to work, but I remember always having a great relationship with her.
As for Liam, my little Daddy’s boy, this morning Dean and I both woke up when he started crying. I waited a beat, expecting Dean to fly out of bed as always. Instead, Dean said, “Oh, he’s up.” I said, “Yeah, yeah, he just woke up.” Dr. Wexler had told us that Dean had to sit back and give me the opportunity to do more, and here he was, giving me a chance to be the one who brought Liam that morning’s bottle. I took it. I loved going through that door and seeing Liam’s first smile of the morning, accepting his first hug. A few minutes later, as I changed his poo-filled diaper, I thought, “And why exactly did I want to do this?”
Almost Normal
One evening Liam and I were walking down the street having some mother-son alone time. Now, Liam shows absolutely no signs of having inherited my shyness. So when he saw a kid from across the street go into our neighbor’s backyard, he trotted right along behind him. I saw that a small group of neighbors was gathered while the kids scampered around the yard. I asked if it was okay if we came in, and they were completely nice and welcoming.
So I stood there with the other moms and dads, chatting the way neighbors do about this and that. An everyday moment in a mainstream neighborhood. I could see that they were trying to be nice to me. No, that’s not it exactly. They were trying to be normal to me. But you could feel it in the air: I was different, but they didn’t want me to think they thought I was different, so they were treating me…differently. And I was part of the same act. I was trying to act normal, trying to act like a mom. Of course I was a mom, but I wanted them to see that I was a normal mom. It didn’t matter that I’d lost most of the baby weight. There was an elephant in the room (in the backyard, anyway), and it was me.
One of the moms said, “Oh, we’re applying for this preschool. We went to look at it last week.” She looked at me to include me, and I said that we were thinking about preschools too. She said, “Oh yes, we know you’re looking for preschools; we saw it on the show last week.” Then there was an awkward silence. She was embarrassed that she’d brought up the fact that they all already knew what was going on in my life. I was embarrassed that she was embarrassed. It shouldn’t be a big deal. I have a reality show. I know that people—even my neighbors, maybe especially my neighbors—watch it. Then when we meet in real life, everyone wants the encounter to feel normal and it just doesn’t. It isn’t anyone’s fault.
Remember the woman who welcomed us to the neighborhood with flowers from her garden and homemade brownies? Well, we’d never really talked since. Sometimes I saw the other moms gathered on her lawn. They stood in a group and talked while their kids ran around. A couple of times I milled around in our driveway hoping for someone to invite me over, but it never happened. Occasionally I’d run into another neighbor who’d say, “Next time I’m going to ring your doorbell at five and drag you over there,” but she never did. I didn’t feel comfortable, didn’t want to come over uninvited or to intrude. But what if they’d been saying, “She never came. What’s she doing, waiting for an engraved invitation?”
Does being known have to be awkward? Maybe I’m the one who makes it so. When you add my insecurities about being a good mother to the expectation that I’m not a normal mother, you get awkwardness and embarrassment all around. I think about that time when Liam pooped in the pool during swim class. I walked over to the side of the pool to get my diaper bag. There were two other moms sitting around. The coach said to me, loudly, from across the pool, “I hope whoever packed your diaper bag today put a lot of wipes in there!” But I had packed my own diaper bag. It would never even occur to me to ask someone to pack my diaper bag. I wanted to shout back, “Um, nobody packs my diaper bag for me, Coach!” but I knew that would just sound odd and defensive. The coach wasn’t being rude. She’s the nicest woman in the world. She just assumed that since I’m a celebrity who has help, there was probably someone who that morning cooked my breakfast, did my dishes, and wiped my ass for me. As I left the house, someone with a checklist and an earpiece probably hung my diaper bag over my shoulder, saying, “Diapers: check. Wipes: check. Butt paste: check.” And as soon as I walked back in the door, someone would take the bag off my shoulder, clean and refill it.
I’m exaggerating. I hope. I’m sure the swim coach doesn’t think my life is so fancy. But she assumes I’m living a “celebrity life.” She doesn’t really feel like we have anything in common. But what moms should I connect with? I mean, I don’t really relate to other celebrities. Or I relate to other celebrities the same way noncelebrities relate to me. I’m like, Ooh, there’s a celebrity. Try to act normal! When I cohosted The View, Kate Winslet was the guest that day. Backstage, before we went on, she started chatting with me. As we were talking I kept saying to myself, “Just act normal. She’s the star of Titanic! Just act normal.” We started talking about breastfeeding, and the whole time all I could think was “I’m talking to Kate Winslet, the star of Titanic, about breastfeeding.” I couldn’t separate the person in front of me from the person on the big screen. Is that how people feel with me? That confusion between the pleasant stranger in front of them and everything else they know about me? Meanwhile, Kate Winslet seemed perfectly comfortable with me. She knew stuff about my life too. She knew Liam’s name. She didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious. But who knows what was going through her mind. If I were her, I know it would have been, “Oh my God, I’m Kate Winslet! The star of Titanic! And I’m talking about brea
stfeeding!”
I don’t relate any differently than most people to celebrities, but there does seem to be some sort of expectation that we have a connection just because we’re all in the public eye. Recently I got an email that my publicist had forwarded from Sean Combs’s head assistant. It said that my family was invited to a birthday party for Puff’s twins, Jessie and D’Lila. Sean and Kim were having a birthday party for their children and wanted to invite Ms. Tori Spelling and family.
Now, I’d never met Diddy. As far as I knew, I’d never even been in the same room as him. I emailed all my friends, “How Hollywood is this?” I had a fantasy of him asking his assistant for a list of every celebrity parent in Los Angeles, then going down the list saying, “Approved. Not Approved. Approved. Not Approved.” I really had no idea why the invitation had come. It was just so random. But if I was invited, that had to mean that hundreds of other people were invited. It was going to be gigantic. I had to go.
As it happened, we had plans for the day of the party with Scout and Bill. Could they come? The invitation said “Tori Spelling and family.” Scout and Bill were family. We call them the Guncles. I asked my publicist to find out if we could bring them. She wrote back, “No problem. You’re all on the list.” Scout said that he was coming for the gift bag alone.
The party was being held from one to five at an estate in Beverly Hills. That morning Dean and I went out to pick up a present for the twins. (I had to look online to figure out that they were both girls. How’s that for a sign that you don’t really belong at a birthday party—not knowing the gender of the guests of honor?) Presents for one-year-old twins—how hard could that be? But as we went from store to store we were stymied. These were girls who probably had everything. Every toy. Every outfit. I decided that clothes were the way to go. Girls can’t have too many clothes. But how did Diddy dress his daughters? Did twins have to match? I had almost settled on an outfit when Dean said they were going to expect a certain level of style from me. My gift had to stand out. It was back to the drawing table. Finally, after going to five stores, we picked out two outfits. One was all pinks. The other matched but was in purples. There were little socks, barrettes, and rubber duckie kits. I nervously wrote out each card: “Dear D’Lila, Happy first birthday. We wish you all the best. Love, Tori Spelling, Dean McDermott, Liam, and Stella.” I had to put our last names, otherwise they might not know whose gift it was. Same thing for Jessie. By the time everything was wrapped and ready we’d spent half our day on the birthday presents.
Stella was napping, so we left her at home with Patsy. I dressed Liam in jeans, an argyle sweater, and a black velvet blazer. He had product in his hair. It was his first big-time celebrity birthday party (excluding his own, of course).
The party was at a huge mansion belonging to Ron Burkle, the billionaire business magnate. Paparazzi were gathered at the gate. We dropped off our car with the valet, climbed two driveways, then walked through two tunnels out to the backyard. It was a good fifteen-minute walk in heels. Who wears heels to a children’s party? Big mistake. So I was struggling, but Liam was fine. He was looking around the grounds, wide-eyed. Maybe he was having flashbacks to his few, fading memories of his visits to my mother’s house.
When we got to the backyard, the first thing we saw was a station where we were meant to get Polaroid pictures taken of ourselves as a souvenir of the party. But we were late—all those hours present-shopping—and nobody was manning the table. While we stood there, a little lost, I noticed that the sign at the table said, “Get your souvenir picture taken at the twins’ second birthday party.” Second? I had assumed it was their first birthday! And the email invitation hadn’t specified how old the twins were. My carefully penned birthday card was wrong. The clothes were the wrong size. I didn’t know what to do. I was mortified. So I took out a pen (wrong color!), crossed out “first” and wrote “second” on both cards. Just then an assistant came up and welcomed us. I shoved our presents to the middle of the pile and tried to put them out of my mind. We smiled for a picture in front of a fountain with the sprawling lawn behind us.
We followed the assistant down what felt like a hedge labyrinth until we heard voices. We turned a corner and found ourselves on a lawn where little kids sat in a circle watching an odd man do a puppet show. Diddy sat on a chair with a girl on each knee. The puppet master made some reference to Gomer Pyle, and a Rogaine joke. Huh? Well, his material may have been a little age-inappropriate, but the two-year-olds seemed to be enjoying themselves, especially Liam, who had pulled Dean right into the circle.
Bill scurried off for drinks and came back with plastic princess cups with spiked princess punch (adults only, of course!). I must have made a face when I tasted the punch, because Bill asked if I’d rather have wine. I said sure, and moments later he returned with my wine. But it wasn’t in a plastic princess cup like everyone else’s drinks. The wine was in a large, crystal goblet. As I took my first sip I looked around and saw that I was the only mom drinking wine. Conspicuously. I took a couple of sips, then hid the wine in the bushes, whispering, “I’ll come back for you later.”
Bill, Scout, and I stood back to assess the attendees. The only people we recognized were two soap stars and Gwen Stefani and her family. There were about fifty guests in total. Wait a minute—fifty guests? Sure, that’s a big party for two-year-olds, but it was nothing compared to what I’d expected. How in the world did I make it onto the list?
Just then Diddy came up to us. He greeted us, thanked us for coming, and shook everyone’s hand, making sure to meet and welcome each of us. He was warm and pleasant. I had assumed that a mogul like him would be too busy for us, but at his daughters’ birthday party he seemed like a parent just like any of us, taking time to greet all the guests. I guess I get why people have preconceived notions of me; I seem to have them of other people too. Diddy couldn’t have been nicer and more genuine.
When the puppet show was over it was cake time. Liam loves singing “Happy Birthday.” Dean held him up to see the cake. Liam leaned forward, trying to blow out the candles. It was really cute, and it all felt perfectly nice and normal, except I still couldn’t figure out what I was doing there.
Then Kim, the birthday girls’ mother, came over to me with another woman; I gathered it was her friend and assistant. They introduced themselves and then Kim told me that Tori & Dean was her favorite show. She said, “I’ve watched every episode. I love your family. And I loved it when you decorated that house. You have the best style.” Aha! Now I got it. I was there because Kim felt like she knew me (or would like to know me) through our show. When they were making the party list she must have thought, “Well, I like Tori and Dean, and I like Gwen Stefani. I’ll invite them.” It had never occurred to me that I could invite anyone I was interested in to Liam’s birthday parties. I could invite Gwen Stefani. Heck, I could even invite Kate Winslet!
Kim said, “We should have a playdate with the kids,” and we exchanged emails. Then her assistant said, “Or the nannies. The nannies can get the kids together.”
The party was winding down. We circled past the petting zoo, the carousel, and the miniature horse rides. There was a nice buffet, a cappuccino/hot chocolate bar, a cotton candy machine, and popcorn. Not as over-the-top as I thought it would be. But yeah, my standards are a little warped.
I’d been texting Mehran about Gwen Stefani’s presence since he worships her. He wanted me to go up to her. “You have the same agent!” he was texting. “Just say hi!” I’ve never walked up to a total stranger and introduced myself, but for Mehran I sucked it up. She had baby Zuma in a sling. I asked how old he was, and how her older son, Kingston, was reacting to the baby. I wondered if it was weird that I knew her children’s names. But then she said, “How’s your daughter?” and I realized she knew I had a daughter. It’s just part of our world that people, including other celebrities, know our kids’ names. We talked about babies and siblings for a few minutes, and then we had nothing else to talk
about and said good-bye.
As we left we picked up our souvenir picture, which was now mounted on pink paper and said, in purple, “Thank you for coming to D’Lila and Jessie’s party.” We also scooped up the gift bag that had Scout so excited. Other guests started rifling through their gift bags in the tunnel on the way to the valet, but we restrained ourselves until we got into the car. The bag contained a pink crown cookie on a stick, a plush doll, an educational children’s DVD, a baby sling, and a child-sized T-shirt with the twins’ names and faces on it. Poor Scout. It wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.
I suppose if Gwen Stefani and I had had more time or we’d been in different circumstances, we might have found commonalities, but the chances weren’t smaller or greater that I would hit it off with her than with any other mom. There’s no instant celebrity bond. The truth is that ninety percent of my life is the same as everyone else’s: I go to work every day. I love my husband, we have disagreements, we continue to love each other and try to make our time together special. I have friends who mean the world to me and who annoy me and who help me navigate my life. And I’m especially like everyone else when it comes to the mommying parts. I worry about my kids when they’re sleeping; I try to get them to eat the right foods; I hope they’re having fun as they start to make sense of the world; I want them to make friends, to grow, to thrive, to love and be loved. I really want to connect and talk and commiserate with others about it all, and it’s kind of a bummer that celebrity—that other ten percent of my life—always seems to get in the way.
Mommywood Page 14
