Free Spelling It Like It Is by Tori Spelling

my doubts. Maybe if the trailer had resembled the ones I’d grown up with—the double-wides that actors use as dressing rooms on movie lots. They are clean and new, and inside they look like apartments. But our trailer had old wall-to-wall carpet and brown sliding accordion doors. There were cockroaches and spiders. The rickety pile in our backyard didn’t fall into my definition of “trailer.” The word I would have chosen was “shack.”
    Jack gave it a shot, he really did. He spent a couple nights out there, no doubt listening to the same coyotes that kept me up every night. After that he slept on a cot that we wedged in Liam and Stella’s room between their two bunk beds. They had to be very careful not to step on Jack when they got out of bed. Dean thought it was fine. “How do you think other people live?” he said. But I don’t think other people are crazy enough to downsize so dramatically with three children, a teenager, a baby nurse, and all those animals.
    Part of why we’d moved was for the amazing Point Dume schools, but it was the middle of Liam’s last year at his preschool, and I wanted him to graduate with the rest of his class. If he was staying, Stella might as well stay too. So every day we drove them from Point Dume to Encino. It was a forty-five-minute drive each way. En route, both children would fall asleep. When we arrived at school, they were cranky and out of sorts. They never wanted to get out of the car.
    Our prospects for the fall didn’t look much better. Liam could start at the Point Dume kindergarten. But there was no room in the local preschool. It had been booked two years in advance. We had no plan for Stella, other than to keep her at the preschool in the Valley. We were locked into this commute for more than a year.
    We tried to make the most of it. One night Dean said, “All I want to do is sit in the back and appreciate the land.” He poured us each a drink, and we sat down on the porch.
    Our land backed right against parkland. There was no view, just the dark shadows of dense trees. As the sun set, the packs of coyotes began to howl. It seemed like a tumbleweed might roll by. Dean loved it. I wanted the manicured garden that I pictured with a farmhouse in the Italian countryside. I wanted the meticulous grounds of Versailles. You can take the girl out of the manor . . . I looked at the wild bushes, weeds, and cactuses, and sighed.
    Dean said, “What? You don’t like it?”
    I said, “Do you really think I like this?”
    Dean said, “I think it’s beautiful, but I can’t enjoy it if you’re unhappy.”
    I said, “What are we going to do during the summer with no pool?”
    Dean said, “I’m going to get an aboveground pool for them.”
    I said, “What’s that? Like a blow-up pool?”
    Dean tried to explain, but I had to Google Image it to understand. Understanding is not the same as accepting.
    Dean said, “That’s what most people do.”
    On November 16, the night of Dean’s birthday, the family went to dinner, and afterward Stella and Liam were in our bed, opening Dean’s presents. I was in bed too, wearing just underwear, no top. Dean and Liam started making funny faces and taking pictures of them with Dean’s phone. Dean tweeted one of Liam with a rolling-pin sticker from the gift wrapping stuck on his forehead. He captioned it “Pinhead.” What he didn’t notice was that in the background of the shot, in plain view, were my tits. Oblivious to the impending storm, we went to sleep. At seven thirty A.M . I awoke to our house phone and both cell phones going crazy. It was our publicist calling. My husband had unknowingly leaked (no pun intended) a pic of my milk-engorged nursing boobies to the public. My tits had gone viral.
    Dean deleted the photo from his Twitter account right away, but the damage was done. Some people felt bad for me. Others criticized me for having my top off in front of my children. I pled that I was nursing Hattie. But the