There’s so much I want to tell my daughter, but what should I leave for her to learn on her own? Does every child need at least one heartbreak? If we can protect or advise our children, don’t we owe it to them to do so?
Sorry to be such a Debbie Downer today, but we’re experiencing some growing pains in our house, and I’m not sure what the best way to handle them is.
To all the mommies out there: How to deal?
In other news, only two weeks to BlogHer! I’m in serious need of some swag and mommy blogger power. BlogHer is my personal Christmas morning. I always leave feeling a little bit happier about the world. How about you all?
Butterfly kisses,
Mommylicious
The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: The Girl on That Blog
“Going Without”
What’s the longest you’ve gone without eating?
When I was little, I suffered bad stomachaches and had to get my stomach checked out. In order to do this, I had to fast for twenty-four hours.
It was awful.
I got my first computer in the second grade.
My mom was so excited to give it to me.
Like mother, like daughter, she hoped.
I’ve had two computers since then.
Before last weekend, I don’t think I had gone twenty-four hours without using the internet.
But when I did unplug, it wasn’t awful at all.
It was great.
The internet is not food.
The internet is not love.
When I checked back on Monday, it took me only ten minutes to catch up on Instagram and fifteen minutes to check my email.
I hadn’t missed anything.
Imogene
The Mommy Blogger’s Daughter: Life with VeggieMom
“Life Without Music”
The only keys being played in our house are the ones on the computer.
Sacrifice for what you need.
Sacrifice for privacy.
And, yes, of course, I miss playing the piano. Silence can be deafening.
VeggieBaby Fights Back
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter Thirteen
I JUST SAY YES
MS. HERRING CLAPS HER HANDS THREE TIMES. I THINK SHE’S hoping that we’ll clap back like we’re still kindergarteners.
“Class!” she says, moaning. “Please be quiet.”
I feel bad for her, but it’s the last period on Friday, and it’s another nice day in Florida. Finally everyone begins to settle down. I wasn’t one of the students who was talking anyway.
Who would I talk to?
Sage’s still mad at me and is still sitting in the back.
Ardsley and I are friends only when I’m helping her with her blog, which is actually turning out pretty decently the last time I checked it.
And Dylan still makes me nervous, even though he’s usually nothing but nice.
“Students,” Ms. Herring says. “Today we’re going to break into small groups and discuss our blog projects thus far. I know that some of you hear the words ‘small groups’ and think that you can slack off, but this is not the case. At the end of class, each group will give a mini-presentation on what they’ve learned from this discussion.”
Ever since I started writing more about going unplugged, fewer and fewer people have been interested in my blog. I can’t blame them. The Blog Wars were much better fodder for gossip. And despite what I’d hoped, my mom hasn’t had a Major Life Revelation since reading about my unplugged idea. In fact, she’s glowing with excitement over BlogHer. If anything, she’s spending all her time online—or plotting what she’ll post about me online next.
Maybe Sage was right to go militant, except I don’t think her quitting the piano has changed anything between her and her mom either. She’s still grounded and her mom’s still blogging.
Basically, I’m back to where I was in the beginning of the year, but without Sage. At least I still have my Plan, capital P. It’s a last-ditch effort to finally get my mom to listen, but what choice do I have? All my other efforts have epically failed.
Ms. Herring points toward Dylan and me. “You two can be a twosome, and the rest will be groups of three.”
Another thing that hasn’t changed: I still turn flamingo-pink anytime I’m around Dylan, especially when I’m about to be in a small group with him.
The room goes crazy with screeching noises as everyone drags their desks to be near their small groups.
Dylan and I both turn our desks, so that we’re facing each other. I touch my checks, and they feel hot. Awkward.
Ms. Herring circles around the room and passes out a questionnaire to each group.
I look over the questions, occasionally glancing up at Dylan. “Okay. Should we go over these one by one?”
“Sure,” Dylan says, but he’s looking past me toward the window. It’s as if the sun is taunting us.
“Question one,” I read. “Have you learned anything about yourself from having a blog?”
Dylan laughs. “Yes, I’ve learned that I hate writing. I never know what to say. Everything I write sounds lame.”
I hold up my pen. “Yeah! It’s weird to write about yourself,” I agree. “I’ll put this down, ‘We’ve learned it’s really hard to express ourselves in the way we want.’”
Dylan shakes his head. “That’s not true. You’re good at it. It must be in your genes or something.”
“Excuse me?” I say without thinking twice. To me, that sounds exactly like when Sage said, You’re just like your mom.
Then it’s Dylan’s cheeks that turn rosy. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, Imogene. You just seem much more comfortable with it than I am.”
I look over to Sage, who’s paired up with Tara and Ardsley. She looks miserable.
I sigh. “It’s actually been very hard,” I say.
Dylan stretches out his arm on the table. “How so?”
I tap my foot under my desk. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s keep going. Question two: Has your blog affected the way that anyone looks at you?”
“No,” Dylan says immediately. “My parents wouldn’t notice if I had a pet hippo in the bathroom. They definitely don’t care if I have a blog. What about you?”
I pause. “I think, at first, my blog got attention because people thought I was being brave for writing about my mom. Now I look back and think that I was being stupid. It’s not hard to write something online and it’s not brave, either. Since I’m no longer writing about issues with my mom, nobody cares about my blog anymore,” I say. “People like conflict when it comes to blogs.”
Dylan holds up his pen slightly above his paper as if he’s confused on what to write down.
“Yes,” I clarify. “Yes, it changed the way people thought of me, but not necessarily in any real way. I thought my blog would change things, but it really hasn’t.”
Dylan stops writing. “I like your blog,” he says, looking up at me. “I’m personally into this whole unplugged thing that you’re writing about lately. It’s very Zen surfer philosophy.”
“Really?” I ask. I’m probably turning birds-of-paradise-red right now.
“Well, to be honest, I didn’t actually like the first posts,” Dylan admits. “They seemed like you were always complaining that your mom is involved in your life, but these later posts have been good.”
I stop.
“I was complaining about the fact that she’s involved?” I repeat, gripping the edge of my desk. “You think that my mom has a blog because she’s interested in me?”
Dylan leans back and puts both his hands behind his head. “Yes. You can’t argue against the fact that your mom’s interested and invested in your life.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I say. “She has a blog about me to make money.”
Dylan leans forward
as if he’s challenging me. “Why’d she pick for her blog to be about you, then? Why not cooking or gardening or anything but you? If she doesn’t care about you, why does she spend so much time thinking and writing about you?”
“You’ll never understand,” I say. “I’m sorry. Unless you grew up on a blog, you could never understand this.”
Sage would understand. Only Sage can understand this, and I don’t have her anymore.
“All parents are embarrassing in their own way,” Dylan says as if he’s some sort of parenting Yoda. He takes the questionnaire from me. “Moving on. Question three: Has your blog opened you up to any communities that you weren’t previously associated with?”
I’m able to quell my anger only long enough to get through the rest of the questionnaire and give our mini-presentation on how blogging has changed us.
How could I have ever liked someone who clearly doesn’t understand me at all? Any thoughts I had about Dylan liking me—or me liking Dylan—have definitely dissipated.
Another thing blogging has taken from me.
“Imogene!” my mom greets me when I walk in the front door. “I’m sorry I missed your swim meet. I was on an intense conference call about BlogHer.”
I toss my swim bag into the laundry room. “No big thing, Mom,” I say. “I only broke my own fifty-free record, I think.”
“Honey,” my mom says. “Let me make it up to you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say as I move around her. It’s a Friday night and I have absolutely no agenda, but I still definitely don’t want my mom making anything up to me. And why did she miss my meet? Isn’t part of the benefits of being a mommy blogger that you get to make your own hours?
First Dylan, now this?
I head up the stairs.
“How about we go to Nordstrom and shop for new BlogHer outfits?” my mom calls.
“Definitely not. No, thank you very much,” I call back. I shut my door. I don’t want anything to do with BlogAnything right now. Other than working on the Plan, that is.
A few moments later, my mom screams: “Imogene, telephone!”
Who would be calling me? Especially on our house phone? For a moment, I have this delusional fantasy that it’s Dylan calling me, and he’s planning on apologizing for telling me that it’s not a big deal that my mom’s a blogger.
For thinking he understands what that’s like.
“It’s Ardsley Taylor,” my mom calls. Even she sounds surprised.
I pick up the house phone.
“Hang up, Mom,” I say through the receiver. I sit cross-legged on my bed and wonder what Ardsley is about to say.
“Hi,” Ardsley says.
“Hi,” I say flatly.
“Imogene,” she says, “I’m wondering if you wanted to come over tonight if you don’t already have any plans.”
There’s a dead silence.
“Why?” I ask.
“What do you mean why? Haven’t you ever hung out with anyone before? Hanging out doesn’t involve a why. It’s best without a why. Trust me, I was born to hang out,” Ardsley says. I can imagine her making a face at me on the other end.
I stare around my room, contemplating my other options. Read a book? Stare at the ceiling? Think about being friendless?
“Sure,” I say. “What time?”
“How about now?”
I pause. I stand up. “Okay,” I say.
I took drama in the eighth grade, and I learned that there’s one rule in improvisation—and that’s that you always have to say yes. Since my life feels like one giant game of improv lately, yes feels like the only thing that I can say.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Fourteen
TABULA RASA
MY MOM AGREES TO DRIVE ME TO ARDSLEY’S HOUSE. I THINK she’s partly doing it in penance for missing my swim meet. My grandma hops in at the last minute because she says she’ll go crazy if she stays cooped up in the house a minute longer.
“So . . . ,” my mom says. She says “so” in a way that I know she’s looking for an opening.
I pull on my seat belt, which is feeling tighter by the second. I turn on the radio.
“Yes, Mother,” I say.
She adjusts her grip on the steering wheel. “So . . . ,” she repeats.
I twist in my seat and face her. “For someone who writes for a living, you’re certainly having trouble finding your words,” I comment.
“Yes, spit it out, Meg,” Grandma Hope says from the backseat. “At my age, being driven around looks a lot better than shotgun,” she adds. “I feel like Miss Daisy from that movie.”
“Did you t-talk to Sage?” my mom stutters, her eyes glued on the road. “Ms. Carter is on pins and needles over there. Sage still hasn’t touched the piano. She hasn’t played a single note since that whole post went viral.”
I sit forward and let my seat belt flap. “Yes,” I answer. “Or I tried to talk to her. I hate to break this to you, but I’m not going to be able to convince Sage to start playing the piano again. But I did try.”
Just like I tried to get you to listen to me about your blog, but you didn’t. Maybe I’m just not good at being heard, although my mom hasn’t written about the dance since the barter—so at least she’s sticking to the deal.
Good thing, since there’s nothing new to say about the dance. Other than the fact I’m still dateless.
My mom frowns. “It’ll all work out with Sage. These hormonal tiffs always resolve themselves eventually.”
My grandma Hope coughs from the backseat. “It’ll work out if you butt out.”
My mom turns around to the backseat. “Maybe you should butt out.”
Then my mom looks at me, and I realize she’s as worried about Sage as I am.
I turn the radio down and wonder if we’re finally going to actually talk. About why Sage is so upset. About why I’m so upset. And I wonder if it’s all going to happen with my grandma sitting in the backseat.
My mom focuses back on the road. “I didn’t know that you and Ardsley were friends.” She says this the way that you know your mom has an opinion and she’s trying to get it across without actually saying it.
I should’ve known that my mom wasn’t going to have a real conversation about what we’re walking in circles around.
“Weren’t you always the one that told me that Ardsley would finally grow out of teasing me?” I ask.
My mom nods. “I was the one who said that,” she says. “Imogene, I’m sincerely glad that you’re hanging out with new people, but I want you to know that friends are like CDs.”
Grandma Hope gently taps me on the shoulder. “Ah, Imogene, the old record analogy,” she interrupts.
“Ardsley’s house is up on the left,” I interrupt.
My mom moves her foot off the accelerator to the point where the car is barely moving. I can tell she’s doing it on purpose. “Imogene, just because you decide you like a new CD, don’t throw the other ones away. You never know which ones are going to be classics. You might be taking a break from your favorite CD, but you might want to hear it later.”
“What’s a CD?” I ask, even though I know what they are—antique mp3s. I sigh. “Mom, if you’re trying to tell me to not give up on Sage, listen to me: I’m trying not to.”
I don’t add that Sage said I was just like my mom, which I’m not, and that it isn’t something you just forgive someone for saying. I point out a yellow house on the left side. “We’re here.”
My mom pulls the car over and I open the door.
“Well, that car ride was more exciting than the Golf Channel,” Grandma Hope says.
I turn around and roll my eyes at her.
My mom puts her hand on the door handle. “Should I come in?” she asks.
I quickly hop out of the car. “No,” I answer. “Thanks for the ride. See you two at h
ome.”
When I’m a few feet from the car, I see my mom hold out her iPhone and click a photo of me walking toward Ardsley’s house. And I also see my grandma shaking her head in the backseat.
But of course. At least I still have the Plan. The Plan will have to be what finally gets through to my mom—I only wish it didn’t have to come to this.
“Imogene!” Ardsley exclaims when I get to her room. “What you’re wearing is, like, such perfection. I die.”
I look down. White jeans, a pink tee, and a tiny shell necklace.
“Why is it perfect?” I ask, but Ardsley’s already rustling through her walk-in closet—opposed to her annex closet.
Ardsley makes a wand motion with her hand. “You’re a tabula rasa of the fashion world, and that’s why it’s perfect. Duh!” Ardsley answers.
I find a seat on the corner of her bed.
“A what?”
“Tabula rasa is Latin for a blank slate. You’re my blank slate,” Ardsley says. Her voice is chirping with excitement.
Suddenly I feel the same way I felt when my mom told she got paid for her blog—betrayed. Ardsley hasn’t invited me here to hang out—she wants me as her makeover subject. Probably for her blog.
While Ardsley’s head is half in the closet, I look out her window to see if my mom’s car is still on the street. Nope. She’s probably long gone.
“Ardsley . . . ,” I start to say as I wonder how I could be so stupid.
Or lonely.
“I don’t want a makeover if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Immediately, Ardsley whips around and gives me a baby pouty face. “But I owe you a favor,” she whines. “You’ve helped me so much with my blog, which by the way, is quickly becoming one of the coolest things on the entire internet. I need to do something for you in return. It’s, like, karma.”
I’m pretty sure Ardsley doesn’t get the concept of karma.
“I don’t want a makeover,” I repeat although this isn’t exactly true. I prayed all summer for some miraculous back-to-school transformation—both for my looks and for my life. While my life’s definitely changed in the past few months, this isn’t how I was hoping it would change. And I wanted a physical transformation courtesy of puberty—not Ardsley playing stylist.
Don't Call Me Baby Page 12
