meal, even if he often had to go right back down to the Oval Office afterward.
My mother sometimes joined us for dinner, too, though she’d fallen into her own
sort of routine, coming down to say hello before accompanying Malia and Sasha
to school but mostly choosing to leave us in the evenings, instead eating dinner
upstairs in the solarium adjacent to her bedroom while Jeopardy! was on. Even
when we asked her to stay, she’d usually wave us off. “You all need your time,”
she’d say.
For the first few months in the White House, I felt the need to be watchful
over everything. One of my earliest lessons was that it could be relatively costly
to live there. While we stayed rent-free in the residence and had our utilities and
staffing paid for, we nonetheless covered all other living expenses, which seemed
to add up quickly, especially given the fancy-hotel quality of everything. We got
an itemized bill each month for every food item and roll of toilet paper. We paid
for every guest who came for an overnight stay or joined us for a meal. And with
a culinary staff that had Michelin-level standards and a deep eagerness to please
the president, I had to keep an eye on what got served. When Barack offhandedly
remarked that he liked the taste of some exotic fruit at breakfast or the sushi on
his dinner plate, the kitchen staff took note and put them into regular rotation on
the menu. Only later, inspecting the bill, would we realize that some of these
items were being flown in at great expense from overseas.
Most of my watchfulness in those early months, though, was reserved for
Malia and Sasha. I monitored their moods, quizzing them on their feelings and
their interactions with other children. I tried not to overreact anytime they
reported making a new friend, though inwardly I was jubilant. I understood by
now that there was no straightforward way to arrange playdates at the White
House or outings for the kids, but slowly we were figuring out a system.
I was allowed to use a personal BlackBerry but had been advised to limit my
contacts to only about ten of my most intimate friends—the people who loved
and supported me without any sort of agenda. Most of my communications were
mediated by Melissa, who was now my deputy chief of staff and knew the
contours of my life better than anyone. She kept track of all my cousins, all my
college friends. We gave out her phone number and email address instead of
mine, directing all requests to her. Part of the issue was that old acquaintances and
distant relatives were surfacing from nowhere and with a flood of inquiries.
Could Barack speak at somebody’s graduation? Could I please give a speech for
somebody’s nonprofit? Would we come to this party or that fund-raiser? Most of
it was good-hearted, but it was too much for me to absorb all at once.