Mommywood by Tori Spelling

living rooms and they meant nothing to me. But in my adult life I never had a real living room. It was always a living room/family room.
    Sometimes it was a living room/family room/office. Now we had a separate room that we planned to use as a family room.
    This was my chance to design the formal living room of my dreams.
    I was decorating the house in Hollywood Regency style, a throwback to old Hollywood glamour. I did the living room fireplace in gold and black lacquered wood. There was a velvet tufted couch and an antique Aubusson rug (well, a faux Aubusson). I recovered a set of old leather club chairs—my one concession to the budget. There were light silk drapes with embossed trees. And there was a hint of Asia in the buffet and the prints on the wall. The bar cart was fantastic. It was stocked with etched crystal decanters and highball and shot glasses. Kid-friendly? Not so much.
    Okay, so the living room was chock-full of accidents waiting to happen. And, wouldn‘t you know it, it was Liam‘s favorite room in the house. All he wanted to do was chase us and be chased around that room. Clearly the first time Liam decided to throw a ball in the house it was going to land smack in the middle of that glassware-filled glass cart. Still, I cherished that space. I pictured myself in a long caftan, with long painted red nails, reclining on the velvet couch with a tumbler of scotch on the rocks in hand. I loathe scotch, but who cares? I‘d twirl it in the glass and just be in heaven.
    When the living room was almost complete, I started to panic. Our media room was tiny, and we wanted it to double as a playroom. Maybe we needed the living room to be a place to watch TV. Dean hates TVs. He‘d rather not have TVs anywhere, especially in the bedroom or the kitchen. But the house I grew up in had TVs in every room. Dean and I compromised: I agreed not to have a TV in the bathroom, I promised him the TV in the kitchen would be off during family dinners, and I reminded him that he liked the bedroom TV just fine when we were watching porn.
    Now it suddenly seemed important that the living room have a TV. A critical anchor for the room. I couldn‘t help myself. I put a huge TV in, facing the couch. But the truth is that once we settled into the house, we never used the living room TV. Media room TV? Yes. Kitchen TV? Yes. Bedroom TV?
     
    Yes. But the living room TV? Never. So in my dream room there‘s a gigantic TV on the wall as decorative art. It isn‘t exactly Hollywood Regency. I blew it.
    The living room isn‘t cozy. It isn‘t family-friendly. We hardly ever use it. But every night before I go to bed I walk past the doorway and stop to look because it‘s so gorgeous. I turn out the lights, smile, and sigh with self-satisfaction.
    At long last it was done. Dean and I, Liam and little Stella were home. And Patsy was back to help care for Stella. For my first postbaby exercise effort I wheeled out the honkin‘ double baby jogger that was the cornerstone of my suburban fantasy. I strapped on a brand-new pedometer so I could track how far I was running. I found a thermal mug that fit in the jogger‘s cup holder and filled it with iced coffee. I put on the cutest running outfit I could squeeze my postpartum body into (in case of paparazzi) and put my hair back. I gave both the kids diaper changes, slathered Liam with sunblock and arranged the shade so that Stella wouldn‘t get a drop of sun. Then I set off on my jog.
    A couple of blocks later my legs seemed to stop all by themselves. It dawned on me: I can’t do this! Another strike against the suburban dream. From now on I would just walk.
    That would be my exercise. It was better than nothing.
    One day, as I was preparing to embark on one of my mega-calorie-burning strolls, our painter came in and said, ―That‘s your neighbor. He just asked me about your wall. I ran to the window to see a man just turning to walk away. So this was Wally—the one-man