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By Root 483 0

how Peter got his information, but through the subway grapevine, Peter knew that my mother had visited, and that I had gone to Paris. He knew that I had won only one challenge, and—most important, he said—he knew that the baby and I were fine. He was angry about our sleep schedule, so he had made it a habit to call the production assistant who was in charge of the contestants every morning at five A.M. and hang up, for revenge. He even came to Parsons once, bluffing his way past the security guard and even making it all the way to the workroom, but we were out, possibly digging through garbage for the materials for our next challenge.

I’m constantly asked how, with five kids, I managed all the work required for the show. The truth is, my husband had a much harder time than I did. As contestants, we were completely sequestered until the finale break. There were no soothing phone calls to toddlers or trips to the drugstore. Every contact with the outside world was carefully monitored and recorded, which limited both spontaneity and sentimentality. I’m not really the type to get all blubbery with a camera in my grille. We didn’t have any free time to read magazines or watch TV, which was a good thing because we weren’t allowed to anyway. For six weeks, Peter completely pulled the weight of the four kids at home. He was father and mother at the same time. By comparison, competing was easy. For the first time in seventeen years, I didn’t have to feed or bathe someone else, I didn’t have to worry about anyone but myself, and I was the one being taken care of to a great extent. The producers drove us everywhere we needed to go, provided endless food and drink, and even told us when to sleep and when to sew. It was a lot like being a fashion-conscious toddler.

Once liberated, I took a day off to hear about everything that had happened while I was away—who lost how many teeth, what boy hit which kid, who learned to do what at which summer camp—and then set to work, knowing that whatever I was about to create, it would have a lot of handwork on it that only I could execute. By the time Tim came for his midway visit, I had more than half my garments completed. It was great to see him, though when he warned me that everything was looking “too Laura” I decided I didn’t care if I lost as long as everything I made was as beautiful as it could be. It was during this visit that he told me why he had initially quailed at my audition: he didn’t believe that I had made those three dresses myself. The work was too intricate, he said, I didn’t look like I had the patience to string beads and sew them onto a dress. I laughed, discreetly touching his arm.

“How do you feel now?” I asked him. “Should I sign up for classes at Parsons?”

“Laura”—he looked at me in his trademark semi-serious way—“you could teach classes at Parsons.”

“Thanks,” I said, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by all that had happened since that first phone call, and with all that was still to come—the finale and the upcoming birth of my sixth child. “I might just do that.”

During our shooting hiatus, the show began to air and people started recognizing me on the street. This was totally unexpected, and I was eager for Peter to witness a sighting. One day, instead of going to work, he came with me to Mood Fabrics, a store featured prominently on the show and a place I knew I would score. We spent a good half hour feeling up fabric, and not one person came up to me with the now familiar “Are you Laura from Project Runway?” I finally gave up; then, just as we were exiting the store, a woman approached. I nudged Peter to pay attention and put an open look on my face.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking at my husband. “Aren’t you Peter Shelton, the architect?” So much for budding celebrity.

WHEN WE RECONVENED FOR FASHION WEEK, I WAS SUSPICIOUS OF the intricate finishing work done on Jeffrey’s collection. For the most part I got along well with the other contestants, even Jeffrey, who would say nasty things about me in the safety of the interview room but never to my face. He only picked