Free Spelling It Like It Is by Tori Spelling Page A

truth was Hattie had been fast asleep in her room for a couple of hours. I was just topless. Dean and I don’t believe in hiding our bodies. We don’t want our children to feel that their bodies are something to hide. Also, well, I’m lazy and sometimes can’t be bothered to go all the way to the closet to change into nightclothes.
    WHEN THANKSGIVING ROLLED around, we still hadn’t settled in. Before we moved we had given away boxes and boxes of stuff. We put most of our furniture, which belonged in a much bigger house, in storage. Even so, we still had boxes up to our ears. We were so overwhelmed by the boxes that we put them outside, in a big pile leading down the hill, with tarps covering them. Boxes of toys, shoes, office supplies, files, pictures, and a collection of faux-fur vests that would disappear, never to be seen again. What would we do with these boxes? And when? We had no plan. Nonetheless, I boldly invited my mother to our house for a country Thanksgiving. I wanted to thank her for helping us with the down payment, of course, but part of me also wanted her to see the real me. Her daughter—raised in a mansion—had chosen a simple, small family life.
    I was nervous for my mother to see the house. She’d loaned us the money to buy it, and I wanted her to think we’d made a sensible investment. But we’d only been living there for about a month, and the place was still in complete disarray. Even putting the clutter aside, this house was completely contradictory to how my mother lived. In the moments before she arrived I looked at our Thanksgiving setup through her eyes. The kitchen wasn’t more than a corner nook. Dean, Patsy, and I were all climbing on top of each other trying to cook. The kids were clamoring to help. I was photographing every step for my blog. It was chaos.
    I watched through the window when my mother’s driver pulled up. The front yard was filled with weeds. There was a little stone pathway, with weeds on either side, leading up to a rickety old wooden fence. (It was the white picket fence of my dreams, but at this moment its gate was off its hinges.) My mother approached, holding a bunch of roses and a housewarming gift. She opened the gate, and Hank, the pig, nearly ran her down. The reality show producer in me took mental note. Perfect.
    “Hi, Mommy!” I said, stepping out onto the front porch. “Welcome to our new house.” What would she say? Would she notice how charming the house was? Or what a big change this was for us?
    “Oh my God, is that a pig?” she said. If she had any thoughts about the house and our move, I would have to wait to hear them.
    “Yes, you know Hank.” I led her to the door, shooing the chickens out of our way. Dean was right there to greet her, as were the kids. There was nowhere else to be. There were still boxes blocking the hallway.
    We had Thanksgiving dinner at the table in the kitchen, seven of us squished in on folding chairs at the breakfast table, which was probably designed for four. Dean made a turducken, a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey. We had stuffing, green beans, and sweet potatoes, and I made a few pies. It was a nice night, pretty close to my fantasy of a cozy, messy family holiday.
    My mother left without ever saying anything about the house, and I suppose that was her way of being polite. But after she left I realized how much I’d wanted to hear that she was proud of me. Dean and I were leading a simple life, surrounded by our children and animals. We were cooking and doing everything ourselves. It was so different from how I’d grown up. Couldn’t she see? I’d turned into a real homemaker!
    The next day my mother forwarded me an e-mail that she’d sent to her best friend. Her friend had asked about Thanksgiving, and my mother’s response was, “Let me tell you how great it was. They’re living their dream. Their own Green Acres . A pig greeted me at the door. They cooked a fabulous dinner.” The e-mail said