Spelling It Like It Is Read Online Free PDF Page A

ife went on: my morning sickness gradually faded; we continued filming for our show; Stella and Liam trotted off to preschool every morning. Dean and I had struck a nominal peace with the paparazzi who continually lurked outside our house. (Any time we moved, no matter what name we did it under, a self-proclaimed stalker website immediately published our new address and photos of the house, and offered copies of the key for sale. Okay, I’m exaggerating about the key, but it wouldn’t have shocked me.) We knew most of the lurkers by face, and usually they were pretty respectful. Once or twice when they had started to follow us, Dean leaned out the window and said, “Please. We’re taking our kids to school, and we don’t want people to know where it is,” and they left us alone.
    There was one morning when a cameraman I didn’t recognize started to follow me. I tried to lose him while being safe, but the kids were in the car so there was no way I could pull any fancy moves. I finally thought, This is bullshit . I turned down a side street and pulled over. The photographer parked behind me. I got out of the car, locked the doors, and walked toward his car. He immediately hopped out and started taking pictures.
    I said, “Look, I’m driving my kids to school. Please respect that. If you want to take a picture of me, that’s your prerogative, but please don’t let it affect my children. Just let me take them to school. I’ll be right home after I drop them off. Follow me then—I don’t care.”
    He said, “Okay. Thanks for being so reasonable about it.” Then he got in his car and drove away. See? Everyone shares a universal desire to protect the children. It gave me a slightly warm feeling.
    But a few months later, in June of 2011, I changed my tune. I was about five months pregnant with Hattie, so I had a belly. Dean was off at culinary school for the day—he was taking a final cooking test to pass a course—and I was driving Liam and Stella to their preschool. I saw someone follow us from the house. At first I thought, I’m sure he knows where we’re going. He’ll stop at some point. But he stayed with us all the way to school.
    Was this paparazzo about to take pictures of my children and their sweet, homey preschool? This was unprecedented. The kids’ school felt like sacred ground. We lead a pretty public life, but so far the press had never reported the name of the kids’ school or shown pictures of them there.
    Legally, the paparazzi can’t trespass, so once we were on school property, we’d theoretically be safe. The drop-off at the preschool was an open, circular driveway with a parking lot on one side of it. It’s also against the law for the paparazzi to take pictures of private property, even if they’re standing on public property, but they violate that all the time. The driveway was sort of outside the main gate of the school, and I was worried that he’d decide it didn’t count as private.
    Indeed, as I nosed into a parking spot, the photographer jumped out of his car and started running toward us, taking pictures as he came. There was a huge sign over the entryway saying the name of the school. If he took pictures of the kids as they passed under that sign, everyone would know where they went to school! Fuck. I had to get out of there, and fast.
    I threw the car into reverse. I was going to back out quickly, zoom out of the lot, lead him away, and try to persuade him to leave us this modicum of privacy. However, things didn’t go as planned. In my panic, I hit the gas too hard. The car leapt backward—straight into a stone wall.
    We hit that wall very hard. I was thrown back, then forward. My heart was pounding. Oh my God. Liam and Stella, in the backseat, immediately started chirping, “Mom! You hit the wall!”
    I turned around. “Are you guys okay?” They looked comfortable and cheerful in their car seats. They were fine, but they were very excited about the drama of the moment