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When it came to the day-to-day lives of our girls, I often had to rely on
young staffers to help with logistics. My team met early on with teachers and
administrators at Sidwell, recording important dates for school events, ironing out
processes for media inquiries, and answering questions from teachers about
handling classroom topics involving politics or news of the day. As the girls began
making social plans outside school, my personal assistant (or “body person,” as it’s
called in political parlance) became the point of contact, collecting the phone
numbers of other parents, orchestrating pickups and drop-offs for playdates. Just
as I always had in Chicago, I made a point of trying to get to know the parents of
the girls’ new friends, inviting a few moms over for lunch and introducing myself
to others during school events. Admittedly, these interactions could be awkward.
I knew it sometimes took a minute for new acquaintances to move past whatever
ideas they held about me and Barack, whatever they thought they knew of me
from TV or the news, and to see me simply, if possible, as Malia’s or Sasha’s
mom.

It was awkward to explain to people that before Sasha could come to little
Julia’s birthday party, the Secret Service would need to stop by and do a security
sweep. It was awkward to require Social Security numbers from any parent or
caregiver who was going to drive a kid over to our house to play. It was all
awkward, but it was all necessary. I didn’t like that there was this strange little
divide to be crossed anytime I met someone new, but I was relieved to see that it
was far different for Sasha and Malia, who went dashing outside to greet their
school friends as they got dropped off at the Diplomatic Reception Room—or
Dip Room, as we came to call it—grabbing them by the hand and running
giggling inside. Kids care about fame, it turns out, for only a few minutes. After
that, they just want to have fun.

learned early on that I was meant to work with my staff to plan and execute a
series of traditional parties and dinners, beginning most immediately with the
Governors’ Ball, a black-tie gala held every February in the East Room. The
same went for the annual Easter Egg Roll, an outdoor family celebration that had
been started in 1878 and involved thousands of people. There were also
springtime luncheons I would attend in honor of congressional and Senate
spouses—similar to the one where I’d seen Laura Bush smiling so unflappably
while having an official photo taken with every single guest.