Mommywood (12 page)

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 world 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

B
ack 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 one 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.

Our neighbors started setting up for the parade. It was straight out of the fifties. Dogs frolicked on the bright green squares of lawn in front of each house. Dads and kids were working together to hang American flags. Somebody had a megaphone. People started putting out plastic woven lawn chairs so they could sit and watch the parade go by. Uh-oh. I stopped short. I‘d invited a bunch of friends to the block party, but I didn‘t know about the lawn chairs! There was no Block Party Lawn Chair Instructional Email! By chance I had two folding beach chairs with drink holders and everything. I had owned them even before I moved to Beaver Avenue. I was very proud of that. But what about my friends? If we wanted to fit in with the crowd, they definitely needed lawn chairs! I sent out a frantic email to my friends: ―Make sure you bring sun hats, lotion, and
lawn chairs
. Jenny wrote back right away. ―I‘m sorry, who are you? Did you just ask me to bring a lawn chair to your house? Because (a) I don‘t own one, and (b) I‘m pretty sure you don‘t have one, and (c) I‘m not even sure you know what a lawn chair is. Is this the new suburban you? Clearly I was in a bad way, because all I could think when I read that was,
In the
time it took her to write that snarky email she could have gone
to Target and bought some lawn chairs!

An hour later, Jenny, Mehran, Sara, Amy, Bill and Scout, Suzanne, and Gueran were all at our house, ready for the big party. I showed off my lawn chairs to Jenny.

At ten in the morning the parade began. All the kids and dogs were dressed in matching red, white, and blue Beaver Avenue Fourth of July T-shirts. ―Born on the Fourth of July

blared on a staticky sound system. Waving flags, kids pulling wagons with their younger siblings in them, the group started at one end of Beaver and marched to the other end. Hello, Mayberry. My stepson, Jack, pulled Liam in his festooned wagon. Liam waved the whole time. He loved it. Ten minutes later they reached the other end of Beaver. Parade over, on to the next activity.

There were other activities—square dancing, tug-of-war, face painting. One house had an exhibit showing photos of Beaver Avenue and its houses in the seventies. That‘s when I realized that they‘ve been doing these same block parties since the seventies. When I looked closely at the photos, I saw that it was the same street, lined with the same trees, the same houses…and the same people. I actually recognized my neighbors—some as children, some as adults—in the photos. It was incredibly sweet, even if it reminded me a little of that creepy photo at the end of
The Shining
. Still, it made me realize they‘d all lived on the same block for a very long time. No wonder they were so worried that we might put up a wall. No wonder they were put off by our camera crew of four. They had to protect the Beaver Avenue Twilight Zone where nothing and nobody ever changes.