Mommywood Read online

  MOMMYWOOD

  ALSO BY TORI SPELLING

  sTORI telling

  Simon Spotlight Entertainment

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2009 by Tori Spelling

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  SIMON SPOTLIGHT ENTERTAINMENT and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Certain names and identifying characteristics have been changed.

  All photos are from Tori Spelling’s personal collection except where otherwise credited.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Spelling, Tori, 1973–

  Mommywood: Tori Spelling with Hilary Liftin.

  p. cm.

  1. Spelling, Tori, 1973–2. Actors—United States—Biography. 3. Motherhood—United States—Biography. I. Liftin, Hilary. II. Title.

  PN2287.S664A3 2009

  791.4502'8092—dc22

  [B] 209004751

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-2145-0

  ISBN-10: 1-4391-2145-1

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  To Liam and Stella—

  Fate made me a parent.

  Your amazingly beautiful souls made me a mommy.

  In loving memory of Mimi La Rue

  1998–2008

  Contents

  Introduction

  Life in the Fishbowl

  Baby Honeymoon

  Daddy’s Boy

  Is She or Isn’t She?

  Round Two, Round Again

  The Family Curse

  Monkey Business

  The Suburban Dream

  People Randomly Die

  My Birthday Girls

  Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

  End of an Era

  When’s the Baby Due?

  My First and Last Block Party

  Hollywood Halloweens

  Mommywood on Vacation

  Stepmommywood

  Retail and Therapy

  Almost Normal

  Red Carpet Drama

  So Long, Jägermeister Shots

  Unresolved Issues

  Children of the Gays

  Goodnight Moon

  Afterword: The Other Shoe

  Acknowledgments

  Photographic Insert

  MOMMYWOOD

  Introduction

  Near the end of my first pregnancy my husband, Dean, and I went to an appointment for an ultrasound. It was always exciting to see the fetus by ultrasound, but this time it would be a special, 3-D ultrasound—an amazing new(ish) technology that allows patients to see a clearer picture and doctors to bill insurance companies more. Instead of the usual staticky, hard-to-discern image, we’d be able to see exactly what our very own baby looked like floating in my belly. It felt like this was the moment when we’d be meeting our little miracle for the first time.

  The doctor squeezed the self-warming goo on my belly and started moving the wand around. We already knew that the baby was a boy. Now the doctor was saying calming, nonspecific things like “Looks good…all good. There’s his little foot…” Actually, who am I kidding? I have no idea what the doctor was saying. For all I know he said, “You’re having six babies and you’ll be delivering them through your ear,” because something had me distracted. I was focused on the screen, staring hard at my baby’s delicate face. There he was, all perfect. Head, eyes, ears, but, well…I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, but something was bothering me. His nose. I kept coming back to it. I was worried, well, it’s just that…it looked a little—was I even allowed to think this?—it looked a little, um, large.

  As soon as the thought entered my mind, I tried to shut it down. I kept trying to look at the rest of the baby. Skinny little legs…nose. Teeny tiny hands…nose. Heart—a little heart that you could already see beating! One of the most incredible sights anyone could ever witness—nose!

  Maybe this was one of the many facts about fetuses I’d skimmed over in all those having-a-baby books I’d bought and really, really intended to read by now: you know, “Babies can look blue at birth.” “Their eyes are puffy.” “The umbilical cord resolves itself.” I racked my brain: was there anything I’d read about ultrasounds making noses look exaggerated? Or noses being out of proportion at birth? Yeah, yeah, wasn’t there something about that?

  At last I couldn’t help myself any longer. I pointed at the screen and asked the doctor, “Is that true to life?” He replied with something overly scientific about the way the sound waves are reconstructed and the surface and the internal blah blah blah. Not very helpful. Inside my head I was screaming, Oh my God, does he have a huge nose? Just tell me! but I was having trouble asking it directly. I knew it was wrong to care, but I did. So I tried to put it as delicately as I could: “Does his nose look…normal?” The doctor nodded. “Of course, of course,” he muttered. Hmm. That still wasn’t really satisfying. I timidly ventured, “You don’t think it’s a little big on his face?” Glancing up at the screen he said, “It’s possible he’s pushed up against the placenta. That could distort or exaggerate the features.” Okay, now we were getting somewhere. I said, “So it’s a normal-sized nose?” The doctor reassured me that my baby would come into the world with a nose that was ready and able to breathe. You know how doctors can be. They assume “normal” means “healthy”—so respectable, so nonsuperficial, so not what I was looking for. “Healthy” was good news, very good news, the best news. But not exactly what I was worrying about right then.

  On the way to the car Dean was quiet. Once we had gotten in and were driving, he finally said, “I can’t believe what I just witnessed.” Uh-oh. Dean sounded angry. He went on, “We were looking at a beautiful, healthy boy—our baby!—and you’re worrying about the size of his nose?” Well, of course the baby’s health was what mattered the most! I worried about that every day. But this was the super special 3-D ultrasound, the one where we saw our baby moving in three-dimensional space. Once all vital signs looked good, wasn’t I allowed to want a cute baby? I told Dean, “I couldn’t help it. I said what I was thinking. It came into my head, and I wanted to know. Should I have just sat there wondering in silence?” Dean sputtered, “Are you really that shallow?”

  Suddenly it hit me. I was picking apart my unborn baby. I couldn’t help but flash back to the day my mother told me I’d be pretty “as soon as you have a nose job.” I always claimed, only half joking, that that moment had scarred me for life. And now here I was worrying about the facial features of my own child, before he even had a chance to breathe air. At least my mother had the decency to wait until I was twelve to start in on me. Was I a hypocrite? Was I destined to replicate the mistakes my mother had made?

  Mothers are supposed to think that their children are gorgeous no matter what. What if I didn’t? What if I’d inherited some mutated gene from my mother that caused us to feel nothing but disappointment in our offspring? Oh my God, did I have the Joan Crawford gene? It made sense: whenever I saw moms showing off little-old-men babies—you know the kind: wrinkled, puffy, and world-weary—much as I love babies, part of me always thought, Can you not see that you’ve got a mini Ed Asner on your hands?

  As soon as we got home I called my friend Jenny. Jenny was pregnant with her second baby and I knew she’d be honest with me. I told Jenny what had happened at the doctor’s office. She said, “Are you kidding? I do the same thing. That’s what girls do.” Jenny said that once we feel reasonably sure that the fetus is he
althy, we assess the features of all family members, immediate and distant, and assemble them into a vision of the ideal genetic descendant. Then we watch closely to see how the baby’s features line up against that vision. “It’s totally normal.” I was a little relieved. I might be shallow, but at least I had company. Later, when Shane, Jenny’s second child, was born, she’d be the one to say, “Come on over, but he’s no looker.” (Let the record show that Shane is now a gorgeous child and of course Jenny thinks so too.)

  Talking to Jenny made me feel better. But then I started wondering. Is that what all mothers do? Or is it what we do—Jenny, me, and all the equally shallow friends around us? Are we normal moms, or are we living in Mommywood?

  As anyone who read my first book or has glanced at the tabloids in the last couple decades knows, I didn’t have a normal childhood. My dad, Aaron Spelling, was an extremely wealthy TV mogul. I starred in 90210—a show that my father produced—for ten years starting when I was sixteen. My mother and I have a difficult (at times publicly so) relationship—when we have a relationship at all. My whole childhood I wished I had a normal family. I’ve spent much of my adult life working to prove that I’m a real person, a normal person, not the punch line of a joke.

  Now I have two children of my own and I want them to have a normal childhood. I want them to have a happy life. I want to have a close, loving, joyful relationship with them for the rest of my life (though I realize that the teenage years are a bitch). My mother and I had and have our troubles, but I was raised by a nanny I called Nanny, and I learned plenty about being a good mother from her. Now is the time for me to take what I learned and to be the mother I always wished I had. But knowing you want to do things differently doesn’t mean you know how to escape the way you were raised. This wasn’t just about me worrying about the size of my unborn child’s nose. Now I was struggling with the much greater fear that when push came to baby, I was going to be just like my mother.

  I grew up in the public eye. I don’t think of that as a bad thing, but I think it’s pretty obvious that being regularly watched, photographed, written about, and sometimes chased like an escaped prisoner by the paparazzi must have had an effect on me. It’s made me care a little too much about how I and, by extension, my family, look in pictures, be they candids, glossy magazine shots, or—ahem—ultrasound images. Obviously that’s something I have to work on. But what else is there? What other special effects has my unusual upbringing had on me?

  How has Hollywood shaped me? How will it shape my children? Can a celebrity be a good mother? Can children grow up in the spotlight without being scarred for life? Will my children play kickball in the street with the neighborhood kids, or will they grow up thinking that the reality show cameramen who follow us around are their best friends? Can I give my children privacy from the media but still let them have friends and neighbors like normal kids? Above all, will my children and I develop the relationship that I had always dreamed of having with my own mother? I may care about a nose for five minutes in a doctor’s office, but these are the real issues that I worry about every day. I want my children to have a happy, normal childhood, but “normal” can be pretty elusive around here.

  The fact that my life isn’t normal doesn’t make it any less real. My struggle to balance work and home life may show up on TV sets across the nation, but lots of moms who aren’t on TV have the same challenges. My attempts to get along with my neighbors may be complicated by their preconceived notions of who I am, but I’m still a mother, hoping her children can be friends with the kids next door. I grew up in great wealth, but I work as hard as the next person to make a home, to pay for school, and to give my children a world of choices and opportunities. I strive every day to be a good mom, like moms everywhere.

  Hollywood is a glittering, glamorous, superficial land of dreamers, wannabes, and stars. Mommywood takes place on the same set—the palm trees and eternal sunshine of Los Angeles. But casting is difficult and requires nine months of faithful commitment to rocky road ice cream, plus labor and delivery. The lead roles are played by stars who are finicky, in need of nonstop coddling, and around two feet tall. My own Mommywood life is full of drama (an awkward encounter with a former costar at a children’s birthday party), tragedy (the death of a diva pug), horror (when poo meets pool), and farce (being the only one in costume at a Halloween party), but at the center of it is the greatest love story I’ve ever experienced, greater than any love story on the small or silver screen, the same amazing love story that all mothers go through with their children.

  This is the story of my definitely amateur, sometimes serious, often bumbling, never-to-be-finished attempt to make it in…Mommywood.

  Life in the Fishbowl

  If a parent’s job is to present the world to their children, then I had to think hard about how the choices I made for my life were affecting my son, Liam. If anyone’s upbringing defined a Hollywood childhood, it was mine. Now Dean and I had a reality show, which meant our lives were a spectator sport: even our son’s birth was part of the ongoing series. Like me, Liam was literally born into a world of television.

  Granted, there were some differences between our childhoods from the very beginning. Liam didn’t live in a mansion with a butler or a driver. His mother wasn’t wearing diamonds the size of a chestnut to do her two-finger daily inspection of the maids’ dusting thoroughness, and nobody was joking about renaming a network after me and Dean the way they called ABC “Aaron’s Broadcasting Company.” Every night my father left his TV shows on the studio lot, whereas when we’re shooting Tori & Dean there are cameras in our house and following us around. There were no paparazzi trailing us when I was growing up, and even if there had been, they would have been stuck way down my parents’ driveway at the gate. Now not only are paparazzi cameras clustered outside our house almost constantly, but when Liam flips through magazines in doctors’ offices he says, “Mama? Mama?” as he turns the pages. Doesn’t matter if it’s Us Weekly, Time, or Highlights. He expects to find a picture of me in every issue.

  This will sound a little crazy, but (actually, save me a little space and just assume lots of the details of my life are prefaced with the phrase, “This will sound a little crazy, but…”) Liam actually prefers the weeklies to the cute board books and picture books we buy for him. I guess there’s something that Britney and Angelina deliver that Babar and Horton just don’t do for him. If I’m preparing Liam’s breakfast and he gets quiet, I look up to check on him. More often than not I find him sitting on the floor, turning the pages of a People or Us Weekly magazine that he’s grabbed from the table. Some days our baby nurse, Patsy, and I take the kids on a walk to the nearby Coffee Bean. We stop at the corner newsstand to pick up the new weeklies (yes, I’m addicted). I buy Liam, now twenty months old, a no-sugar-added, coffee-free, chocolate iced blended and an English scone. Then he sits in a chair, drinking his iced blended and looking at magazines like a big boy. If big boys are fascinated by who wore what to the Oscars.

  One night Patsy had some family over—about five women—and was making them dinner. Liam was excited when they arrived. I saw that he wanted to show them his favorite toys, maybe his room, so I said, “Monkey, show them your house.” (Monkey is what Dean and I call Liam because he danced and bounced like a little monkey in his Exersaucer.) So Liam ran to the living room, his favorite room, and grabbed a weekly that was sitting on the table. He waved the magazine in the air, crowing, “Oooh, ooh, Mama.” I was a little embarrassed, but I figured they probably didn’t get exactly what he was saying. Chances were they just thought it was odd that a baby was proudly showing them a magazine.

  Then one of the women said to Liam, “Are you in the magazine? Is there a picture of you?” Liam got an excited look on his face, made some of those hyperventilating-like grunts toddlers make when they’ve been understood, and flipped through the glossy pages until he found the inevitable photo. It was him and me. He pointed with his chubby finger and said, “Mama, Mama!�
�� He was exceedingly proud. It was his big moment. The woman asked, “Where are you? Are you in the picture?” Liam beamed and pointed to himself next to me. Then his face got really serious. He turned the pages intently, looking, looking, until he got to a certain page and stopped. He pointed to a picture, smiled broadly, and said, “Dada. Dada!” We all looked down. It wasn’t a photo of Dean. Liam was pointing at a picture of Patrick Dempsey. Boy, did the women love that. They were all like, “Is your dad McDreamy? What a scoop!”

  It’s not just that Liam thinks family photos arrive in glossy magazines with the Friday mail. He’s also completely obsessed with the paparazzi. When he sees them he screams in delight and smiles for the cameras. There’s no trying to block them by holding him inside a jacket or pulling up a stroller blanket to create a shield. Even when he was only one year old he seemed to know exactly what I was trying to do—ruin his shot!—and would get mad.

  One time I was shopping in a store and a swarm of paparazzi appeared from out of nowhere. Maybe I’d stepped on one of their nests or something. There must have been fifteen of them with huge cameras lined up to snap pictures through the store window. This happens sometimes. I normally suck in my stomach, try to remember not to pull my underwear out of my ass, and otherwise pretend they’re not there. But Liam doesn’t exactly have the same instinct. His round tummy is cute and he knows it, his diaper is usually firmly in place, and he hasn’t quite grasped the concept of pretending. This time I looked away from Liam for one moment, and when I looked back I saw that he was standing face-out in the window display, staring at the crowd of photographers. They were all going crazy, taking picture after picture of him, and he was totally mesmerized by the flashes of light. I couldn’t resist pulling out my own (much smaller) camera to take a picture. In it you see Liam from the back and (I have to admit) a rather pretty meteor shower of flashes in the window behind him.