Mommywood

by Tori Spelling

  Mimi was so tired in the end. She had trouble walking. She had no zest for life. She was just lying there. After talking to the psychic, I felt that Mimi had been hanging on just long enough to see me through Stella’s birth. Mimi thought she was my protector. She knew I’d have a girl. She was willing to let the girl take her place. She waited for Stella to come. Once I had my little girl, I was happy and she could pass knowing things were going to be okay.

  In a back room, just for the family, Mimi was resting in an open casket, pink of course. She was laid out in her favorite pink dress and pearls, surrounded by flowers. We brought Ferris in to say good-bye. I took some time alone with her.

  Mimi was my first baby, and even though I got most of my opinions about parenting (positive and negative) from Nanny and my parents, it was with Mimi that I got some real, hands-on practice. I remember one Halloween I brought Mimi to the set of 90210 (Mimi always went to the set with me). I started to dress her in her Halloween costume. She was going as a prima ballerina. But Mimi, who usually loved nothing more than a fancy new outfit, especially a pink one, was not having any of it that morning. As I tried to slip her tiny paws through the petite sleeves, she was struggling and crying and making it harder on both of us. I didn’t want to force her to get dressed. She usually got so excited about it. But here it was, Halloween, the one day of the year when dressing up was really important (to me, anyway), and she picked this of all days to decide to be an ordinary, clothes-resistant dog? Time was ticking. I was late to work, and I hated to be late. I had a meltdown. I shouted, “Mimi, be still! You’re being a bad girl!”

  Mimi instantly cowered and went submissive. I got her outfit on, but now I was the one who was crying. I drove to work with tears running down my face. At work I sat in the makeup chair tormented by what I’d done. She was a dog. I had no business forcing her to wear clothes, and I had yelled at her! I never yelled at Mimi (which may explain why she was never exactly housebroken). As they attempted to fix my mascara, I wailed, “I’m a bad mom! I’m a bad mom!” I was devastated. Being a mom one day was so important to me, and I knew Mimi was my practice child. I could just see myself trying to dress my own baby, having a mental breakdown, and screaming at him. A person like me couldn’t have children. I’d scar them for life. I was literally in hysterics. The makeup people finally gave up and sent me to get my hair done. They’d try again later.

  I’ve never forgotten that episode. When Liam twists and writhes, not wanting his diaper changed, I have all the patience in the world. When he throws his spoon to the floor time after time, I calmly pick it up and ask if he’s done eating. When he isn’t ready to get out of the pool, I remind him of all the fun things we have to do at home. I still have to work at it sometimes, but Mimi taught me patience.

  Mimi saw me through a complete chapter of my life. She was there for me in my twenties. I think of those years as the time when I was really growing up and becoming an adult, and Mimi went through everything with me. Bad boyfriends, breakups, friends, my party days. We’d all come home drunk and curl up with Mimi on the couch. Mimi saw it all. Mimi was there through my first marriage, my divorce, my second marriage, my first pregnancy, Liam’s birth, my second pregnancy. It was as if she recognized that I was completely formed, married and settled. There were no more major ups and downs to come. Her work here was done. The Mimi years were the years that made me the woman I am today.

  I said my last good-byes and kissed her. I closed the casket and they took her away to cremate her.

  People magazine posted news of Mimi’s death in their obituary section. Not long after Mimi died, Dean and I were in a restaurant and the waiter said, “I’m sorry to bring it up, but my friends and I are huge fans of Mimi La Rue and we were really sad to hear about your loss.” Mimi was a true star, a paparazzi sweetheart. I know she is missed.

  At her memorial, the pet psychic said that Mimi will come back in some form to let me know things are okay. Ten minutes after all the butterflies that we released flew out of the tea garden, I saw one last butterfly fluttering around near Stella and said, “Look! It’s Mimi.” Maybe it was Mimi, who can say?

  Isabel, who loved Mimi so much, has transferred her devotion to Stella. She truly believes there’s a connection. She’ll say, “Look how good she looks in pink. Like Mimi!” and, “Oh, Stella wears little dresses. Like Mimi!” Isabel is so sweet that I never have the heart to say what I’m thinking in my head, Yeah, um, lots of baby girls look cute in pink and wear little dresses. But every so often I see a monarch butterfly in our backyard. That seems unusual to me: I haven’t seen a ton of monarch butterflies in my daily life, and I’d never seen one in the backyard of any house I lived in (and a couple of those backyards were big enough to qualify as nature preserves). I look at the butterfly, watching it flit here and there in its peaceful journey, and I can’t help wondering if that’s Mimi, telling me it’s all going to be all right.

  When’s the Baby Due?

  A week after Mimi’s memorial, when Stella was two weeks old, Dean and I went out for our first lunch since her birth. I was still healing from the cesarean section and hadn’t begun to think about the baby weight and how and when I was going to get rid of it. I didn’t have unrealistic expectations for how I should look two weeks after giving birth, but I knew other people did. When I say other people I mean the media. It was a given that how much weight I’d gained and lost and how quickly it came and went (or didn’t go) was going to be public fodder. People on the street would check me out, maybe whisper to one another. The paparazzi would swarm to get the least flattering shots. They would sell the photos to magazines, that would then present my postbaby body for everyone else’s judgment. It feels a lot like construction workers staring at my tits, but more intense. As if every thought that a construction worker had was posted on a giant billboard for the world to see. For some reason people think it’s acceptable to judge women’s bodies as if they’re show ponies. And I guess by posing on red carpets I’ve made myself fair game for the less flattering versions of that spectacle. I’ve signed on to that lifestyle.

  I flashed back to a day when Liam was three months old. Most people who knew that I’d been pregnant now knew that Liam had been born. I was in the market, and a woman said, “I recognize you. When’s the baby due?” Before I could answer, she grabbed my belly. My three months postpartum jelly belly. I wasn’t ready to look at it in the mirror, much less offer it up for stranger grabbing. The perpetrator (okay, maybe she was the victim) released her grasp, realizing instantly that the baby had moved out; I started my diet that night.

  Now, getting ready for lunch at La Scala, I took at least an hour to get dressed. I tried on dress after dress looking for the one that would hide everything and offer me the best protection possible from belly grabbers and judging cameras. Maybe I should have been looking in the “tent” drawer. If I had had a “tent” drawer. I don’t think Fred Segal has a tent division.

  Indeed, I was right to be worried. This time there was no belly-grabbing incident, but Dean and I had barely touched our appetizers before the paparazzi found us. I could just see the headlines. Would it be “Tori Spelling Pregnant Again?—Or Just Fat?” Or would they compare me to other celebrities who had recently given birth: “Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, Who Gained the Most Baby Weight of All?”

  As we left La Scala to walk to our car, I tried to suck in my belly, but I couldn’t really do it. I’d had a C-section. My brain was like, Stomach muscles? What stomach muscles? So instead I held my breath, stuck my butt out, and leaned back, contorting my body into a silhouette I imagined would downplay the pooch. When we got to the car, I turned to Dean and said, “I’m about to pass out. I’ve been holding my breath for two minutes straight.”

  Postbaby bodies are what they are. The newborn is the priority, and it’s all we moms can do to try to get enough sleep. It’s natural to want your former body back, but whether or how soon you can do anything about it is different for everyone. In the w
orld of news magazines, however, Hollywood is supposedly full of celebrities who are back in tip-top shape minutes after the baby lets out its first cry.

  It just can’t be true—there must be corsets and bulge-hiding designer clothes involved—but it’s hard for me not to feel competitive with the other celebrities who had babies in the same time frame as I did. Jessica Alba’s baby was born at Cedars—the same hospital where Stella was born—two days before I gave birth. I was still recovering from my cesarean, and the idea of doing a sit-up was absolutely terrifying, when photos of Jessica Alba in a bikini appeared in magazines. The article said she was working out six days per week, and I have to say she looked fantastic. But Oh. My. God. The pressure was on. Brooke Burke was three months before me. Nicole Kidman was one month after. They all seemed to immediately revert to their former fabulous bodies. I was relieved and glad to see pictures of Gwen Stefani wearing baggy clothes. Of course she should be wearing baggy clothes, her baby was only one month old! These people are in the same business as I am and we’re having babies at the same time. But why exactly do I feel like we have to reattain our prebaby bodies on the same schedule? Because the weeklies tell me I should!

  Ah, Mommywood, and the race to lose the baby weight. Two months after Stella was born, Dean and I were having a late afternoon cocktail (yes, I pumped and dumped) on the patio at the Four Seasons. It was so decadent. Like the good old days. A woman and her husband walked up and were about to sit down near us when I saw her gesture toward me. She said to her husband, “We can’t sit here. I want to have a cigarette, and she’s pregnant.” I was sitting in a booth wearing a baggy dress (from the theoretical “tent” drawer). She had no idea who I was, but she could still see that belly of mine and had no doubt that I was expecting. It was time to get to work.

  I was never a scale girl, but when I finally started trying to lose weight, I got scale-obsessed. Soon after the Four Seasons trauma, Liam and I were in the bathroom—I’d just finished brushing his teeth—when I stepped on the scale. I’d been eating well for a week and hadn’t gotten on the scale for a few days, so I was expecting to see a loss. No such luck. Instead, when I saw the number I said, “Ugh. I’m a beast!” This was just when Liam was starting to pick up phrases, and sure enough, seconds later I heard, “A beast!” I turned around and Liam was saying it and pointing at me.

  The next day we were having a big brunch at Barney Green-grass in Beverly Hills with friends and friends of friends. Liam was in a high chair at the table. There was a lull in the conversation when Liam piped up. He said, “A beast!” and he laughed and pointed at me. I was embarrassed in front of the people I didn’t know very well and went completely overboard explaining why my son was calling me names. On the other hand, my child was picking up new words. Genius! Let’s hope that’s the only time I feel proud of being called a beast.

  It was just plain hard to relax and take my time losing the weight when nobody else seemed to think that approach was okay. All the attention to the baby weight was getting to me. It actually affected how I saw my own body and what I expected of myself. I’m so conditioned to think I have to look a certain way. Recently a woman came up to me and complimented me on how I looked. She said, “How did you lose all your baby weight?” I said, “No, look, I still have a belly. And Stella is four months old.” She said, “Are you kidding? It’s been seven years and I’m still trying to lose my baby weight. You look great!” It had been seven years for her, and here I was apologetic about my belly, like it was a public offense. How insane is that? I wanted to say I was sorry for apologizing, but that’s a loop I always try to avoid.

  The self-consciousness may seem funny considering that on my TV show I let the crew film me in various states of makeup-free reality. I was even okay being filmed four days after Stella was born. I knew going into that taping that it was the worst I’d ever look. I figured, that’s life, and the people who were watching the show knew it. When I watch reality shows, I’m not looking at women’s weight.

  But magazines are different. Both reality shows and magazines are supposed to capture reality. But judging is part of what magazine readers do. If I see a reality show star in a magazine compared to someone else wearing the exact same dress, I would definitely judge who wore it better. If I’m wearing a dress and I’m standing next to Paris Hilton, in the same dress, who do you think wins? I weigh thirty pounds more than she does. Of course she wears it better! In the magazines I feel scrutinized. I have to have the right outfit. I have to be standing in the right posture. My body has to look perfect. My hair has to be done. I care what they write about me. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. And caring about it means I try to control it. Oh, if only moms were judging. Then I might have a fighting chance. Or at least a good seven years to lose the baby weight.

  My First and Last Block Party

  Back home, in our neighborhood, I hoped to leave the celebrity spotlight and all my self-consciousness behind. When we bought our suburban fantasy house, one of the selling points was the Fourth of July block party. What could better represent the normal, all-American childhood I was so determined to give my kids than an old-style July Fourth block party? When I’d gotten a flyer in the mailbox about the block party—before we even moved in—I’d immediately filled out the attached form (so official!) to sign up for the planning committee.

  We were new to the neighborhood. I wanted to make a good impression. The block party was my chance to show my neighbors that we were normal, that we and our children fit in here. I wanted to do everything perfectly, to the letter. I was convinced that any mistake I made would be blamed on who I was. I had no idea what preconceptions my neighbors had, but chances were that the first association they had with the name “Tori Spelling” wasn’t “down-to-earth mom.” Being a happy, enthusiastic participant in the big event was my best chance at showing them who I was.

  The planning committee sign-up form should have clued me in. It was a highly organized event. I’ve been to weddings that were less organized than the Beaver Avenue Block Party. Heck, I may have even had one myself. The emails started coming at least three months in advance of the day. There were July 4, 2008, Beaver Avenue Block Party T-shirts to be designed, ordered, and handed out before the big day. There were activities to be planned, food to be organized, rentals to be arranged.

  As soon as we agreed that one of the activities could happen in front of our house, we got our assignment: we were to host the egg toss. Then the Official Beaver Block Party Schedule came. It said that Dean McDermott would host the Beaver Block Party Triennial Egg Toss at 2:15 p.m. I was worried about organizing the egg toss, but then I realized, here’s everything you need in order to host an egg toss: eggs. But I was so concerned about getting it right that I still found a way to get all up in my head about it. How many eggs should I buy? What kind of eggs? Did they have to be organic? Cage-free? With omega-3s added? The Organizing Committee’s email response calmly told me not to worry about the eggs. They would supply the eggs. When I asked if I should get prizes they said, “Oh no, we have prizes.” Apparently hosting the Beaver Block Party Triennial Egg Toss simply meant allowing it to take place in front of our house. Not on our front lawn, but on the street in front of our front lawn. Our job was to be there to witness it. Still, I lost some sleep over the egg toss. Why was there nothing to do? Was the egg toss for newbies? Was that why it had been assigned to us? Did we look too lame to handle the moon bounce? I came from a family that had Christmas snow in Los Angeles. I could handle a moon bounce rental! I guess that’s what happens when you invite a natural-born party planner to a highly organized event and then tell her she doesn’t have to do anything. It’s like bringing a diabetic to an ice cream shop. It’s just plain cruel.

  As the day approached, the preparations escalated. A week before the event the Distribution Committee distributed decorations for each house and supplemental decorations for the wagons the children would ride in the block-long parade. Every house was supposed to bring on
e dessert for the potluck table; I planned to make my famous red velvet cake. The night of July 3 all the necessary egg toss supplies were deposited on our doorstep. No surprises. Just eggs.

  The morning of July Fourth—the big day!—I sprang out of bed, ready to embrace our retro-cool summer festivities. I dressed the kids in red, white, and blue outfits. We decorated Liam’s wagon with the regulation streamers we’d been given. I tried to wrap the trees outside the house with the regulation crepe paper, but the Scotch tape I used to hold it in place failed miserably.

  My red velvet cake was ready on the counter, and I set about decorating it with white frosting, blueberries, and strawberries to make an American flag on top. I knew it would be a perfect combination of patriotic and delicious. I had just put the finishing touches on the flag when I reread the Block Party Potluck Table Instructional Email. It explicitly said that all desserts must be cut up into serving-sized pieces. I panicked. I had to cut up my beautiful cake! Pretty as it was, I knew people were looking for us to do things wrong. I had to follow the instructions perfectly or I’d never be accepted.

  I grabbed a knife, held my breath, and cut the cake. The second I touched the knife to it, the whole thing collapsed. It was a mess. I was in tears. How could I give my kids a quintessential American childhood if I couldn’t even deliver a homemade cake to a neighborhood potluck? Dean walked into the kitchen and was shocked. “Why did you cut it? It looked so beautiful!”

  I pointed to my computer. “I just followed the instructions. The Block Party Potluck Table Instructional Email. It said you had to cut it.” I returned to the collapsed cake, salvaged what I could, and arranged it into little squares. I flattened the frosting and rearranged the berries. It looked…okay. Unlike in the National Anthem, our flag was not still there. But the patriotic colors were. Except where the red bled into the white and was kind of pink. Sigh. It wasn’t special, but I might not be forever ashamed to show my face on the block.