A boy. A boy. What is my mom thinking? 

We go to parties all the time. Mom says it's for fun. Alex says it's good press. I say it's boring.

After driving for another fifteen minutes, Alex finally pulls up at a house that resembles a spaceship playboy mansion. Who lives here? I wonder. Kindly refrain from asking why I say playboy. It's one of those things I'd prefer not to explain.

Alex helps me out of the car and hands me a black mini dress that, in my right mind, I would never be caught dead wearing. My mom thinks she knows how to dress me. I tell her I want to blend in, but no! She has to give me the opposite - a dress that shows way too much skin and basically requires a thong.

I know in my heart that my mother does love me and she wants to express it, but she doesn't know how. She thinks money and gifts will show me her love, but really I want quite the opposite.

When I was fourteen, I was diagnosed with a fairly common anxiety disorder. I was told I had nothing to worry about. But that's just the problem, I worry about everything. 

I had my first panic attack when I was at a movie premiere. It was crowded with reporters asking me questions about what I thought of my mother's role. I just couldn't take it, and so I freaked out and ran away. I had a full-on panic attack in my mom's dressing room. My mother wasn't there for me. I had no one except Alex. My mother came to see if I was okay when we got home, after I had just spent the last six hours crying in the back of the theatre. I had managed to get away from the cameras before it happened, but Alex told everyone that I "had to go number two". Embarrassment city! At least he was trying to help. He always is.

My mother was not at all worried. She searched my symptoms on Google and found out that all I needed to do was breathe. Great advice, mom! You never told me you went to medical school! I'm pretty sure I do that subconsciously, at least I would hope so.

It only got worse. I tried everything, from anxiety pills to massages. I tried counseling. My mom hired a person who I could tell my fears and worries too. Nothing worked, even after the countless doctor's office appointments. Once they diagnosed me with a anxiety disorder, my mother even suggested a physic ward institution. But Alex said a flat-out no to that. Thank god I have at least one sensible person looking out for me. 

Of course, my mother pressed the topic, not understanding the wrongness of the idea. Alex took my mom into her personal living room - yes, she has her own living room - and shut the door, hoping I wouldn't hear their conversation. But, of course, I could.

"Lauren," I had heard him say in that gentle tone he likes to use, my ear pressed to the door. "Just because Micah has an anxiety disorder does not mean she is mentally unstable. I will not let you take her to an insane asylum." 

It was that far-fetched of an idea. My mother really didn't understand me at all then. But it's not like she does more now.

Back in reality, I survey myself in the full-length mirror. I am standing in the luxurious bathroom of my mother's changing trailer, so I didn't have to wade through crowds of celebrities. At least, not yet. 

The dress fits better than I had expected, cut off at a few inches above mid-thigh. Of course, it is not my style of choice, but I've had to wear worse. I have no makeup on, which I know my mother will disapprove of. I never wear makeup unless my mom forces me to. Which happens most of the time.

"There you are, beautiful," says a sweet, crooning voice. My mother is standing in the doorway. "Alex told me you were here. Can I put on some mascara on your beautiful face?"

It's not like I have a choice. "I guess," I reply. "But only mascara." If I didn't say that, I would get a full makeover, which my mother likes to consider her "specialty".

"Of course, sweetling," she says in her sugar-coated voice - the one she usually reserves for when she occasionally plays the role of Mrs. Claus in some kind of twisted Christmas special.

I sigh. I feel her smooth hands caressing my face as she readies it for makeup application. I believe my mother only calls my face beautiful because it is almost a picture-perfect replication of hers. She is considered the pinnacle of beauty. All celebrities are measured to her. If she was a character in Kim Kardashian Hollywood she would be Star #1.

In most respects, I am not very well known. If you look up Lauren Tanner on Wikipedia you will notice it only mentions that she has one daughter. My mother never really mentions me to the press because no one ever asks and, in her mind, she is much more important than anyone else.

My mother brings her entire team with her to all her parties. Her manager, Kevin, her agent, Victoria, her PR, Kendall, her publicist, Ella, her hair and makeup team, Wes and Blair, her stylist, Remy, plus Alex and me. That is just her daily team. She has a monster squad of famous friends and others that help her with the endless jobs that are offered to her.

"There," she says once my lashes are substantially darkened. "My little duckling is ready." It is only one of my mother's forms of endearment and, trust me, that is as good as it gets. 

More than once I have questioned my mother ability to parent. She never told me I was a mistake, however. She told me my father was a Turkish prince who was supposed to marry another princess. However, he fell in love with my mom and, well, I came along 9 months later. She said that he didn't know I existed (Not a good thing to tell your kids) because he had to marry the princess anyway. She couldn't tell him I was born because they would both get in trouble. And I believed her bullshit with all of my 6-year-old heart. I thought I was a Turkish-American princess waiting for my Prince Charming. I never though twice about the facts. After all, I was a very naive child. I thought Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy were still real long past the sell-by-date of when that was acceptable.

I did, however, find out the truth eventually, once I realized the facts.

1. I was not Turkish.

2. I never got the tiara I asked for time and time again.

3. Whenever I mentioned my so-called heritage to other people who knew my mother but weren't close enough to get the cue, they seemed awfully confused.

4. Once I snuck into the study and looked up the Prince of Turkey. Not only were the results meaningless, but none of the pictures looked the slightest like me.

When I was 7, Kevin, my mother's manager told me the truth. In many respects, Kevin was my favorite, besides Alex. But he was also a dream crusher. Kevin not only told me flat-out I wasn't a princess, but that I was a mistake from one of my mother's many one night stands. He also told me unicorns didn't exist and that Santa Claus was really my mother. Which left me with one huge question: if my mother is Santa, then how come she doesn't have a beard?

I feel my mother take my hand and lead me out of the trailer, then up the steps to the huge mansion. I blink my eyes several times to protect them from the extravagant decorations of lights, mingled with the flashing cameras of reporters and photographers. My mother smiles brightly, teeth flashing, while I try my best not to vomit. What results is an uncomfortable expression that is half-smile, half-scowl. 

As soon as we cross the threshold, I let go of my mother's hand and dash to the food table before she can capture me again. I pick up a cream cheese puff pastry and a chocolate chip muffin and stuff them in my mouth. Grabbing a handful of potato chips, I turn to retreat to the corner when I see my mother beckoning me.

Sighing in disgust, I follow her bidding to where she is standing.

"Micah," she calls. "I believe you have met Jaimie Riece." She gestures to the familiar face of my mother's co-star and best friend. 

I give the woman a slight wave and she nods back.

"But who I really want you to meet," my mom continues, a sly smile on her face, "is her son, Nicholas."