When my wife and I appeared on “House Hunters Renovation,” our onscreen lives looked perfect as our home was rebuilt. But offscreen, our family was falling apart. Although we transformed the kitchen with imported tiles and a French range plucked from our shared Pinterest board, viewers had no idea we were foster parents struggling to keep our marriage intact.
We all know that reality TV isn’t quite real. It thrives on exaggeration and half-truths. Over two months of filming in Atwater Village and Silver Lake, we were portrayed as a carefree, childless couple. In actual reality, we were a family of four, beginning the uncertain process of adopting the young brothers we’d fostered for almost a year. Two moms and two boys — “Even Stevens,” the boys liked to say.
Although social workers assured us our family would be permanent, the boys couldn’t appear on screen due to privacy rules. After saying goodbye to a baby we fostered the year before, we didn’t even mention them, in case things changed.
Onscreen, Mary and I enjoyed wine with friends, working out and walking our dogs — a narrative pieced together from one tightly scheduled day of filming. While we staged home improvement scenes and appeared concerned about appliances, real life was much more dramatic than the show’s usual “Where’s your closet?” moments.
The boys grew increasingly anxious as relatives they hadn’t seen since infancy expressed interest in guardianship. We acted as if we believed the idea was good for them — maybe it was. They had just begun calling us their moms, clinging to us as we facilitated visits with the relatives to ease a possible transition, not for us, but for them.
Our episode didn’t capture scenes of us consoling the oldest when his night terrors returned or taking calls from school on shoot days when the youngest begged to come home. We’d switch off our mic packs while convincing him to return to class, assuring him we’d always be there at the end of the day. I wondered how long we could keep that promise.
Amid fostering and renovations, we managed regular parenting duties too: karate, play dates and meltdowns. Hectic work schedules left us little time to discuss anything aside from home improvement and the boys’ activities. Meanwhile, we tracked every on-camera outfit in case producers needed to “make adjustments” later. We maintained a careful facade for the camera. For ourselves, too. I wanted our life to feel as good as it looked.
On weekends off from filming, I’d bring margaritas in an insulated bottle for family trips to the park, telling myself it was the same as brunch drinks with friends, which our schedule no longer allowed. Mary and I passed the bottle back and forth, our hands grazing, the only hint of intimacy those days.
As the renovation progressed, we began arguing. We clashed over the most minor things: schedules and meals. Our only alone time was spent sipping wine in front of the TV after reading the boys’ bedtime stories.
We started couples counseling toward the end of “House Hunters” filming — one more thing to fit into our week. We walked into our first session holding hands, but the vibe shifted as we settled onto opposite ends of the sofa. I went in optimistic, expecting tips on reconnecting, but Mary said she wanted space; things were too difficult. My heart pounded in my ears as the room blurred around me. I wondered if we were filming a different reality show. Surely, I was being “Punk’d.”
The mounting pressure of work, remodeling, filming and parenting — while facing the gauntlet of the foster care system and the boys’ increasingly likely departure — was taking a toll, for sure. But more distance felt like the opposite of what we needed. The boys had no idea anything was amiss. We presented a front of stability for their sake. As we trudged along, it became clear: We needed to gut-rehab our communication and lay the foundation for meaningful connection.
We began with daily check-ins homework from our actor-turned-therapist to share thoughts and feelings, not just the day’s events. Though awkward at first, these steps built trust and helped us reconnect, not just as co-parents, but as partners. Slowly, our walls came down.
After some delays, our renovation was complete. It should have been a happier time, but we moved in while preparing the boys to go live with their relatives. Though saying goodbye was heartbreaking, we knew it was likely best for all of us. Uncertain what kind of family we could provide if they stayed, we’d always miss them, but I also felt a tinge of relief having our lives back. Maybe now we could refocus and rebuild — a bittersweet transition.
We stopped arguing. We weren’t as stressed. We had meaningful conversations, not just rundowns of logistics. We went on dates, reconnected with friends and revisited shared and separate interests. We had the space again to be whole people who could show up for each other at our best. Our final counseling session was the day after the renovation “reveal,” when we pretended to see the finished house for the first time.
When the episode aired, we watched it over hefty pours of wine from our sofa, where I cringed into a velvet throw pillow each time I heard my recorded voice describe our new home as “Spanish-y.” Friends, family and even strangers asked about our filming experience. No one knew to ask about our secret children. It’s like they never existed.
During the ensuing year, we reflected on our past and wondered if we’d been chasing a checklist: Marriage? Check. House? Check. Kids? We realized we didn’t need a child to complete us — we were stronger than ever. But we saw how much the boys thrived with us, even under challenging circumstances. No, we didn’t need a kid, but maybe a kid needed us.
Today, our 12-year-old daughter, with us for over eight years, is officially adopted after a long, uncertain process. We continue to balance the demands of parenting and recognize our partnership is a never-ending project that can’t be adequately packaged for an hour of TV.
We recently revisited our episode for the first time, watching with our daughter tucked between us on the sofa, laughing at her onscreen moms. My recorded voice still made my palms sweat, but it reminded me not only of the time we renovated a house, but of all the years since, as we’ve rebuilt our lives and our family. We’re no longer interested in projecting perfection — we know it doesn’t exist. We clinked our glasses of sparkling water — our drink of choice these days — and marveled at how far we’ve come. We don’t even live in that house anymore.
The author is a writer and marketer living in Glendale with her wife and daughter. She wrote “A Kids Book About Foster Adoption” and is working on a memoir. She’s on Instagram: @j_murn.
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This story originally appeared on LA Times
