My Not-So-Private Life
By Tiffany Lewis

I’ve never been high on the red-carpet lifestyle.

Growing up, I never wanted F-A-M-E, all capital letters and bright lights.  I didn’t want my pores examined on the silver screen or close-ups of my imperfect elbows splayed on the cover of National Enquirer.  I didn’t want to run from fans in sunglasses and hat, ducking into darkened shops for a moment of peace.

No, I wanted a nice, quiet life.  A private life.  So I chose to be a mother.

But it seems that along the way someone forgot to inform children about a mother’s hopes for serene, calm living. Without even an audition, I was cast into the lead role of home life, and with that have come all the side-effects of stardom.

I’ve got the red carpet, all right – in the form of Kool-Aid stains in the living room.  My children examine the freckles on my arms and say, “Oooh, Mom, what are those funny things?”  I find myself ducking into darkened rooms just to check my e-mail for a few minutes.

I have a live studio audience for everything I do.  I’m followed everywhere I go, including into the bathroom.  Sometimes I try to sneak in a shower unannounced.  Within seconds, a chubby hand rips back the shower curtain and I hear, “Hi, Mom!”

I can’t crack an egg without my toddler running into the kitchen and saying, “Oh, you’re cooking! I’m going to get a chair and help.”  I’ll surround the kids with toys in their room and slip off to do a little writing.  Within minutes I have two pairs of eyes staring up at me. “What are you doing?” they ask.  “Can I see?”  I’ve learned to sweep the floor in five seconds flat because my youngest has a love affair with the broom and the dustpan.  He finds it fun to dive into my swept dirt pile, like a pirate digging for buried treasure.

From Day One, I have been tuned to hear their cries, and these kids must come tuned with a meter of their own – the Mommy Looks Busy: Good Time to Interrupt meter.  I can be sitting on the floor staring into space and my kids ignore me.  But the minute I hop up, determined to be productive, they’re at my heels.

I live the movie star life.  I even have my own pint-sized paparazzi.  They dig through my trash, distract me while I’m driving, and peer through my windows.  And they’re always trying to get the latest scoop on my love life.

The other day, while both boys were busily playing, my husband and I sat down on the couch for a quiet moment together.

“Watch this,” I whispered to him.  Almost simultaneously both boys looked up, saw that something important must be going on that they were missing, and clambered onto my lap.   Whenever my husband tries to give me a hug, a third head pops up between us.

Once they have the juicy details, the kids are sure to make it a tell-all affair.  One woman I know was waiting to “announce” her pregnancy to friends, until her daughter decided to make it headline news at church.  While the sacrament was being passed, she stood up and shouted, “My mom is going to have a baby!”

I find that I’ve stopped making daytime phone calls because my boys’ greatest crises always happen when I’m talking to a long-lost friend.  I subconsciously divide my time into “things I can do while the children are awake” and “things I can do while they sleep.”  Most fall into the latter category, which means I have a mile-long list of unfinished tasks.

I guess I should have seen this coming.  Growing up, my mom could never claim anything as her own. Whenever we went out to eat, we always ended up eating her food.  For some reason it tasted better.  We’d shout urgent messages to her through the bathroom door.  As soon as she announced she was going to lie down for a few minutes, we all needed her, desperately.  We invaded Mom’s bed when we were sick, or scared, or lonely – somehow the pillows were softer and the sheets felt cooler.

So I have to remind myself, when the kids are clambering next to me for position as assistant chef, that it’s all part of the great learning experience.  When we go to the beach, my son plays with dump trucks, but he also cooks up salmon and couscous, listing all the ingredients in their proper order.  He looks over my shoulder while I read, probing me with questions.   Those become some of the best teaching moments.

And it’s flattering, really, to have this Mommy Fan Club.  My ridiculous jokes always get great laughs.  I belt out “Orange-Colored Sky” at the top of my lungs and the effusive toddler applause rings in my ears.  When I put on lipstick (rare), my son tells me I look pretty.  And when I return home from a moment alone (very rare), I’m nearly flattened by this crush of adoring fans, anxious to show me their fire truck or kitty cat book.  They climb up my legs and wriggle into my lap, and I can’t help but smile.  This is the type of fame I can live with.