The following essay was written by our featured guest, Melanie Lynne Hauser.

Well, I’ve gone and done it.

I’ve rocked my kids’ world, I’ve messed with their fragile little minds. I didn’t mean to. All I wanted to do was tell a story, really; give some piece of myself to others. But it’s not that simple. These things never are.

I’ve gone and written a book. And by doing so, I’ve stepped out of the shadows where I’ve lurked as The Mom ever since my children were born. That was me on the sidelines for sixteen years, the cheerleader with the camcorder, a bag of juice boxes and Rice Krispy treats at her feet. First steps — Yay! Do it again for the camera, sweetie! First macaroni picture — Whoo Hoo! I’ll go get a frame! First soccer goal accidentally prevented by a lucky flinch — Astounding! Turn this way, honey, and smile for the camera! I’m the audience; they’re the stars. They acknowledge it with a barely a nod, as stars do; they’ve grown accustomed to their rightful places in the spotlight. And now they’re a little reluctant to make room for me.

It’s not that they’re not proud of my new — well, celebrity is stretching it a little, since my biggest interview was for the PTA newsletter. My boys have shared in all the ups and downs of publication. “Hand me that 3 Musketeers bar” became a familiar request as I accumulated a couple years’ worth of rejection letters; “Cereal for dinner is fun!” was the proclamation whenever I was in the throes of a mad burst of creativity. And when I finally got The Call that every author dreams of, my sons were touchingly proud of me. The little one actually got tears in his eyes that had nothing to do with the fact that this might mean a raise in his allowance. (Or so he said.) And I got a glimpse of something most parents never get to see from their children: Admiration. And that, in turn, rocked my world.

But it didn’t last for long. With each new thrill that came my way — cover art, foreign rights sales, page proofs — interest waned. “Yeah, Mom.” The eldest yawned. “You forgot my allowance last week.” And with that observation he neatly put me in my place, reminding me of what was really important. You know — him.

But still I persisted. “Don’t you want to see the cover? Let’s put it on the refrigerator door!” I trotted over to the place of honor, eager to hang my accomplishment alongside theirs. But there was no room. All the magnets were taken. I stared at the door, papered with drawings, certificates, report cards. I suggested it was time to retire some items. That’s when things turned ugly.

“Get rid of my second grade safe bike rider award? No way!” (This from the current high school sophomore who had just gotten his driver’s license.) “You’re not serious, Mom,” the eighth grader gasped when I fingered his realistic stick portrait of his father, created in a kindergarten art class.

I looked at my boys, looked at the crowded refrigerator door, looked at the cover art proof in my hand, and sighed. “I guess I’ll just — tape it to my desk,” I said, and both boys looked relieved, nodded, and left me to my task.

I suppose I was asking too much. The refrigerator is sacred, a symbol of what our roles are within the family. They take care of what’s outside; I’m responsible for what’s inside — behind the scenes.

And really, who created the monsters? I did, of course. My applause — my attention — was a constant buzzing presence in their ears, background noise, mainly. Yet in this scary world background noise is a comfort. It’s security. With it I gave my children the solid foundation needed to launch them up to the skies as they reach for new goals, bring home new accomplishments to display on the most precious real estate in our house — the refrigerator door. So in a sense my greatest achievements are already there; I didn’t have to ask them to make room.

Still, I’m excited about this new phase in my life; mine alone, no longer reflected glory. I proudly taped the cover art above my desk, right in the center, where everyone can see.

And I can’t help but notice that every once in a while, my boys stop and look at it, heads cocked, sly smiles on their faces. When friends come over, they nonchalantly point it out. And there’s a little buzz in my ear, a slight roar of approval — background noise, if you will.

And it inspires me to keep going, keep writing. Keep reaching for my own stars, so that I don’t have to share theirs anymore.

Read more by the talented Melanie Lynne Hauser at Refrigerator Door, and don't miss her debut novel, Confessions of Super Mom!