When we moved to Beaver Avenue, my fantasy was to be in a kid-friendly neighborhood where Dean and I would become friends with the parents of Liam’s—and eventually Stella’s—friends. I wanted a community. I wanted the whole suburban dream that was so foreign to me growing up in a huge house with a long driveway that no trick-or-treaters would bother to hike. Our house on Beaver Avenue was everything I thought I wanted.
But our house was right on the street. There was no fence, no hedge, and no privacy. Our show means cameras are in our kitchen, our bedroom, our backyard. I’m constantly exposed (without makeup), but for some reason the show doesn’t feel like an invasion of privacy. I guess the notion that it is transmitted by cables and satellites creates kind of a buffer between us and the people who are watching us. They might see us, but I can’t see them.
Meanwhile, when I walked out the front door of our house, I saw curtains open as people peeped out at me. One day when I was walking Stella, a woman came up to us and said, “Hi, Stella Doreen!” Then she said, “I’m sorry to bother you. I can see you’re out walking your baby. But I just wanted to say that I love the show.” I thanked her and was about to walk on when she said, “Can I ask what you’re doing in this neighborhood?” A little taken aback, I said, “I live a block away.” She said, “I’d never have thought you’d live in our neighborhood!” She was right. I didn’t belong. Not because I was too rich or too famous or too snobby. But because none of us could get past the fact of who I was. Nobody was comfortable, including me.
Not long after we moved in, Jack was back in L.A. and spending much more time with us. Though we had planned for Jack to sleep in the den, we started regretting that we didn’t have another bedroom in the house that he could call his own. We wanted to make sure he felt at home. Then there’s the fact that Dean and I work out of our house. There are always extra people—producers and cameramen—moving around us as we go about our lives. Our house was plenty big for a family of four, but it didn’t fit the life we were living now.
You always want what you don’t have. Growing up, I always wanted a small house. I wanted a cozy space where I could feel close to my family. Honestly, just a place where I could find my parents without using an intercom would have been an improvement. But now we wanted a room for Jack and an office for me and Dean and more space for those cameras to glide by without bumping into corners or small children. If we moved just outside L.A., over the hill where real estate was less expensive, we could trade our house for one that was big enough for our family and job, and gated to keep the paparazzi at bay.
All I ever wanted was to be normal, to raise my kids as a normal mom in a normal house in a normal neighborhood. But my dreams of normal were crashing into the reality of our family’s special situation. Having paparazzi assault us every time we left the house wasn’t normal. Having neighbors peek out windows at us when we came out the front door wasn’t normal. Being followed as we drove away wasn’t normal. I was beginning to realize that the normal I’d been seeking wasn’t a matter of living in the right neighborhood or bringing the right cake to the block party or walking across the street to hang out with the neighbors uninvited. “Normal” was a concept that was mostly in my head, and the best way to achieve it was to build a life where we were calm and comfortable and felt at peace. There were other factors, of course, but I knew for certain that that life wasn’t happening on Beaver Avenue.
If we lived in a normal house, we would have no privacy. If we lived in a private house, we would lose the friendly neighborhood. We had to find a compromise. The new house we found was the compromise. Dean and I basically traded location for space. The new house would make Jack more comfortable, which was high on our list of reasons to move. It was closer to him and Mary Jo. It was set back from the road, with a security gate that kept paparazzi at a distance. We’d be able to get into our cars without being photographed. The rooms were on a bigger scale, which meant we wouldn’t be tripping over light cords and cameramen as we lived our lives in front of the lens. There was a big, grassy backyard where our children could crawl and toddle now, and later run and play tag and have a swing set. And there were neighbors, but not so close that they could see in our windows. We may have wanted a close-knit, friendly relationship with our neighbors, but we needed privacy and safety. Maybe here we would find the balance.
When I showed the house to Jenny and Mehran, they were excited. Mehran called it my first grown-up house. Jenny was like, “This is going to be so great. Our kids will all play in this backyard together. During the summer our kids will be splashing around in the pool. We’ll celebrate holidays here together.” She saw it as I did, a place where my family and friendships would grow, a place where we would all create memories together. That was exactly the reaction I was hoping for, but it wasn’t the only reaction I heard.
My makeup artist has worked with me for years and years. When I showed her the website for the new house (this is common in L.A.), her reaction was, “Now this is the type of house I’d expect Tori Spelling to live in.” Hearing that crushed me. To me it meant that the house was a rich-girl mansion, the right house for the daughter of megamogul Aaron Spelling. I felt embarrassed, ashamed. I’d worked my whole life to get to a certain place, a place where people saw me as a normal person. I know my makeup artist cares about me, and she didn’t mean it in a bad way, but what she said tapped into my greatest fears. After all that work, proving that I was an independent, self-supporting, hardworking actor, when I moved into this house I’d be forever pigeonholed as the overentitled, spoiled rich girl everyone has always assumed I was. I worked hard to earn the money to buy that house, and part of me was proud of what I’d achieved, but the rest of me was just devastated that I could never escape the preconceived notion of how Tori Spelling would live.
Red Carpet Drama
Everyone’s got a central conflict in their lives, a constant theme that their personal struggles and problems keep coming back to visit. In case you haven’t figured out mine yet, this is it: part of me wants to escape the life that Tori Spelling is expected to live, and part of me is so used to that life that I can’t imagine anything else. Red carpet events have always been a standard component of my social life. I’m so accustomed to entering an event that way, for me it’s almost as mindless as putting the car into park. I just do it without thinking.
There are certain expectations on the red carpet. Your hair will be done. Your makeup will be perfect. You’ll have a fresh manicure and pedicure. You will be wearing designer clothes and will be able to correctly pronounce the name of each designer. You’ll know how to stand in a flattering pose. Your date, whose outfit requires nearly equal attention but will receive no reaction whatsoever, will pose with you, then step out of the frame for the “fashion shot.” You’ll answer questions in quick, friendly sound bites, with smiles and a bit of humor, wait for the final flashes, then head into the event without delay. It’s old hat to me.
And then came Liam. But before I talk about Liam’s first red carpet experience, I want to take a moment to discuss Liam’s socialization, such as it is. I want to talk about boobies.
There came the day (and believe me, I thought it would be much later in his development) when Liam started wondering what my boobs were. He’d come up to me and push on them inquisitively. Dean would say, “Mama’s boobies.” I figured now was a good time for him to understand the human body, long before he got all caught up in adolescent drama. So I’d lift my shirt and say, “Mama has boobies. Daddy and Liam have nipples.” Same as you’d show your kid your belly button: “Mama has an innie on a perfectly flat tummy.” (I wish!) “Daddy has an outie.” (Dean: exposed!) He got it down pretty quickly, so when I said, “Where are Mama’s boobies?” he’d say, “Boobies!” lift my shirt, and come in for the honk.
Liam’s booby grab was my favorite baby show-off trick. Scout and Bill loved it. As for Mehran, well, Mehran had issues. He regretted my boob job. He’s always said that I’d wear designer
clothes much better if I didn’t have the boobs. He’ll say, “One size smaller—would you ever consider it? It’d be so much easier to dress you.” Mehran has a point. In the nineties, when I bought the boobs, they looked great with the clothes, but they don’t wear today’s fashion well. (I can only hope they come back into style someday.) But that wasn’t my real regret about the procedure. I’ve said before and I’ll say again that if I’d known when I was twenty-one that implants could impair my ability to produce enough milk for my babies, I wouldn’t have gotten them. That leaves Dean as the only supporter with no regrets. Dean loves them. And Liam is his Daddy’s little boy. When Liam reached for the goods, Dean would say, “That’s my boy! You like Mommy’s boobies just like Daddy.”
It was all very cute and innocent—until the Public Booby Incident. I brought Liam to the playground one day and was sitting around the other moms and nannies while the kids played. Then Liam started saying, “Boobies! Boobies!” and trying to lift my shirt. I turned red and struggled to keep my shirt down, “Liam, not now!” Poor kid, he was just trying to play the game that Dean and I love and encourage at home, and now Mama was withholding. Liam started getting really frustrated, trying to lift my shirt and chanting, “Boobies, boobies!” more and more emphatically. He was on the verge of a full-blown tantrum. I stood up (so as to be out of reach) and redirected his attention to the slide. But as I looked around, it seemed that everyone at the playground was trying really hard to not look at me, and they were all a little farther away from me than they’d been before the Incident. I guess some things that are funny at home aren’t acceptable out in the real world. Is it too early for him to learn that lesson? Because I have to admit, I still think it’s funny.
It’s becoming all too clear to me that Liam, and eventually Stella, are kids who are going to have ample opportunities to embarrass their parents. Or rather, we’re setting them up to embarrass us. For instance, we were on our way to an event to protest Proposition 8 (the ban on gay marriage in California). When we stepped out of the house—we were still on Beaver Avenue—we saw our neighbors with their son, Sam. Sam is really cute with Liam. He always wants Liam to come over to play tag or catch. So when Sam yelled, “Can Liam come over and play?” we decided we weren’t in a hurry and there was time for the boys to run around together.
Now, Liam was all duded up for the event in True Religion jeans, a Lucky Brand shirt, and gold L.A.M.B. shoes (from Gwen Stefani’s children’s line). Sam was out there with his mom and another adult. The two boys were kicking the ball around. Then Sam’s mom said, “Look at those gold shoes!” I was embarrassed. I have different styles for different situations. It’s like I do costume changes. I have my “mom” outfits, with flip-flops and jeans, and my “going to be photographed” outfits, and my “fashion event” outfits. This may sound nuts, but Liam kind of has the same setup: he has different wardrobes for different contexts. I knew that at a Hollywood event, people—especially the “No on 8” gays—would see his gold shoes and say, “Aw, he looks fierce.” But in a normal suburban neighborhood they were probably a bit much. I nervously laughed and racked my mind for a situation-appropriate joke. I didn’t want to mention the Prop 8 rally. Who knew what her politics were? I didn’t want to sound defensive. She wasn’t being mean, she was just noticing the shoes. I was the one who was insecure and trying to make sure she didn’t think I wanted Liam to be a tricked-out toddler (most of the time). Finally I just said, “When in your life can you wear gold shoes without being mocked if not under the age of two?” She chuckled kindly. Phew.
But for the record, Liam looked awesome in his gold shoes. Thank you, Gwen Stefani.
The Prop 8 protest wasn’t a unique occasion; we were starting to bring Stella and Liam along to just about all the events we attended. Or more accurately, we stopped going to most events, and the only ones we managed to get to were kid-friendly. I haven’t been to a movie premiere in ages. I’d rather stay at home on premiere night and go later, with my husband, in sweatpants, without makeup and four-inch heels. One week it was the Prop 8 protest. The following week we had two events: Jenny McCarthy’s autism benefit at the Treehouse Social Club, a cute playspace café in Beverly Hills, and a charity event at Build-A-Bear, benefiting the Ronald McDonald House.
Dressing for an event was always a fashion project, but bringing both babies for the first time complicated matters even more. I had to think through how the red carpet would go. When I knew I was going to be carrying the kids, my instinct was to be in my mom wardrobe. I always wear flats, flip-flops, or sneakers as a mom. But I knew that at an event, photos would be taken. The magazines would scrutinize my outfit and assess my postbaby weight loss. Heels elongate legs, make you look thinner, and are more fashionably accepted. I had to wear heels. Still, I couldn’t exactly walk around for two hours wearing Christian Louboutin stilettos, holding a baby and chasing a toddler. That was ridiculous. So what was the happy medium? Wedges. I’d wear wedges. But I couldn’t help wondering how the other celebrity moms did it. I always saw photos of Katie Holmes in four-inch heels with Suri. What was her secret? Did she dump those gorgeous shoes in the gutter the minute the photos were taken? I had to wonder. I’ll ask Kate Winslet next time we chat.
I wore jeans to both events that week, with a cardigan and wedges one day and a soft black cashmere sweater and boots the next. After they took the family shot, Dean would step out of picture for the female-only fashion shot. But I was going to be so casual that I worried the outfits weren’t fashion-worthy enough for the magazines. When I go to an event, I feel like I have to wear an outfit that garners some degree of fashion praise. In all my ventures, especially the clothing and jewelry companies, being Tori Spelling—fashionable Tori Spelling—is my business. What if they said I’d lost my passion for fashion? What if I wasn’t even a “Fashion Don’t”? What if I was just a “Didn’t Bother”? Well, I was wearing what I was wearing, so I’d find out the hard way.
In the days leading up to the Build-A-Bear event, Liam was starting to discover his little sister. It was really sweet…except when it wasn’t. On Friday night Dean and Liam were sitting on the couch in the family room watching cartoons. I came in and sat down with Stella. I said, “Look, Monkey. Buggy’s here. She’s going to watch cartoons with you.” As I watched I saw Liam, his eyes still focused on the TV screen, reach over and slowly take Stella’s hand. I couldn’t believe it. I caught Dean’s eye and mouthed to him, “Look!” It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen, my two small children holding hands. (And, yes, watching TV together, but we’re a TV family, what can I do?) Dean and I were blissing out on our moment of family love.
Then, as I watched, the hand holding got increasingly enthusiastic. Liam squeezed Stella’s hand tighter and tighter until she started screaming. I extracted her and hid my panic while I assessed the damage. Was her hand broken? Would she ever recover? Was hand modeling a career she’d have to forsake? Then Liam started in; he doesn’t like when Stella cries. Family love was transformed in an instant to family grief. Eventually everyone calmed down and, total collapse aside, we decided that holding hands was a giant step. Liam had noticed Stella. He was injuring her. They were turning into real siblings.
The next day I put Stella on the bed with Liam. Usually when I put her next to him, he pushes her away, but this time he started petting her head. I said, “Is this your baby?” and he nodded. Then he started to get excited and said, “Baby, baby!” and pointed at her. Then he started playing a game where he’d go up close to her face and say “Boo!” She thought it was hysterical, which got Liam more excited, and the more excited he was, the rougher he was. Finally, since at this age all things fun must end in tears, he did it one too many times, hit her in face, and she started crying. Game over.
The point is, the whole weekend we saw the two kids connecting. He rolled on top of her and made her cry. He bit her foot and made her cry. He grabbed her and made her cry. We clearly had to work on the whole gentle thing, but he was rea
lly interacting with her. And Stella at five months looked at Liam with such adoration. You could just see the years ahead, that she was going to look up to him as a big brother and a hero for the rest of her life.
After that auspicious weekend, we brought both babies to the Build-A-Bear event at Hollywood and Highland, where the Oscars take place. It was Stella’s first red carpet appearance. I had her in my arms. Liam was really excited. He loves walking the red carpet. But then he saw a kiosk with an Elmo puppet. He fixated on the Elmo. We wanted to keep things moving smoothly, so we bought it for him. But then Liam decided that he absolutely didn’t want to go into Build-A-Bear. That took us by surprise. We pointed at the bears in the window. Could any child resist so many cute, furry bears? One child could: Liam. And when I say didn’t want to go, well, we’re talking full-fledged terrible twos meltdown. Dean was holding Liam, but Liam was arching and screaming, trying to get down. You know, classic grocery store tantrum. Except we weren’t in the grocery store. We were surrounded by celebrities in fancy dress and cameramen ready to document this particular tantrum to be filed and resuscitated ad nauseam for the rest of Liam’s life. Maybe suitable for his private, extended family video montage, but not for the general public.
Dean put the squirming child down, and Liam hurled himself face-first onto the red carpet, screaming and crying. I said, “Don’t worry, Liam, Tara Reid did the same thing on the red carpet last week.” A paparazzo looked at me and said, “Really?” Oh, come on, seriously people. It was a joke. I said, “No, I’m just trying to make light of the fact that my son is having a tantrum on the red carpet, you’re taking pictures, and I’m completely embarrassed.”
At home when Liam has tantrums I talk him through them. I kneel down next to him and calmly say the stuff that moms say: “I know you’re frustrated and can’t find words. It’s okay to be upset. Try to use your words. When you can pull yourself together we can go and have fun.” I articulate his situation because I know he can’t explain his feelings. But this time we weren’t at home. We were surrounded by people documenting the situation. The unspoken understanding between me and Dean was that we didn’t want to make this a big deal. The more we called attention to the tantrum, the more of a big deal they would make it in the press. (Thanks in advance, TMZ.) Liam wouldn’t care now, but one day he might. We’d just let the tantrum run its course. We hoped that would happen quickly and when he recovered, we’d move on. And that’s what happened.
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