Becoming

by Michelle Obama

hauling luggage, serving meals, and generally tending

the rear of the house, close to a window that overlooked the

stereos and duvet sets and racks of clothes. Some kids arrived

members of Congress stayed seated through most of it, appearing obstinate and angry, their arms folded and their frowns

plummeted. As a result, both of us had grown fiercely dependent on the small gym on the top floor of the residence.

seemed vaguely appalled, presuming it to mean that as First Lady I’d do nothing but pipe-cleaner craft projects with my kids. The truth was, I intended to do everything—to work with purpose and parent with care—same as I always had. The only difference now was that a lot of people were watching. My preferred way to work, at least at first,

comers. Optics governed more or less everything in

curled in comfortable sleep beside me. I’d had a very bad dream.