Finally I decide to turn my reading light on and look over my notes for tomorrow’s panel.
Part of me wishes that I could talk to Sage about the Plan.
But another part of me wishes that Sage wasn’t here at all.
I can’t change what happened, but I can change tomorrow.
* * *
“Are you nervous?” Ms. Carter asks me over our hotel’s continental breakfast.
I stab a piece of bacon with my fork. “Nope,” I lie.
“Sage, aren’t you excited for Imogene and Mrs. Luden’s panel?”
“Of course,” Sage also lies. She pops a mini-muffin into her mouth.
Ms. Carter looks at her disapprovingly.
“Do you know the shelf life of muffins like that one?”
Sage keeps on chewing and picks up another one.
“It’s three weeks. Nothing should last three weeks,” Ms. Carter says. Her eyes are sparking green fire. “Only toxins last three weeks.”
My mom smiles and puts her hand over Ms. Carter’s: “It’s vacation,” my mom says, but not unkindly.
Sage holds up her index finger. “This is not a vacation,” she says.
And I can’t help but to nod in agreement, especially when a lady squeals “Mommylicious!” and runs over to our table, nearly knocking a waiter over in the process.
“Hello, group, I’m Biz from BizzyBites, and I’m the moderator of today’s awesome panel: “Mothers and Daughters Who Blog Together Stay Together.”
The crowd of forty or so, all seated in folding chairs, cheers loudly. Even after a few years coming to BlogHer, it still amazes me that people pay to come listen to people talk about blogs.
I’d pay not to hear about blogs.
I try to adjust in my seat, but I feel awkward with the crowd watching my every move.
I see two ladies in the third row pointing at me and whispering, and somehow I feel even more self-conscious.
Even though I’ve grown up in the limelight, it’s different here, because 1) this is live and 2) it’s not all filtered through my mom. The one good thing is that here, I’m finally in control of how I’m being portrayed.
My mom squeezes my hand and smiles so big you can even see her back molars.
I think that’s a clue that she’s not satisfied with my smirk, so I grind my teeth and mimic my mom’s ridiculous smile.
“On today’s panel, we have Meg, the genius behind MommyliciousMeg,” BizzyBites announces.
My mom waves to the crowd as if she’s on Miss America.
The crowd claps and someone yells out, “Mommylicionados for life!”
BizzyBites waits for the crowd to quiet down. “We also have her daughter, Imogene, better known as Babylicious.”
Is that who I am better known as? Do I only really matter to people as Babylicious, not Imogene? That thought just fuels my decision to go through with the Plan. I’d tried to talk to my mom many times before, but today I’m really going to do it . . . in front of all these people. There’s no other way.
My mom elbows me gently, and I give a small, awkward wave. If this were a pageant, I would not win Miss Congeniality.
The crowd claps politely, but this is nothing like the thunder of applause my mom received. Where’s my roar? The blog is about me, after all.
“And we also have Daughter Knows Best, also know as Patsy, and her mother, Mother Knows Best, also known as Mary Anne.”
I look over and decide that Patsy and Mary Anne are identical twins, separated by thirty years. They’re even both wearing matching sweatshirts with their blog URLs.
“Each panelist will have a few moments to speak, and we’ll also have time for a question-and-answer period afterward,” BizzyBites explains.
I look at my stack of papers. On the top, I have the speech that my mom wrote for me. The one I told her I would read if she apologized for writing it without my permission. She did apologize, and now she actually thinks I’m going to read it. But underneath it, I have the speech that I’m really going to give. The speech that I wrote back when I thought of the Plan.
Really, it’s the speech I’ve been writing my whole life. It’s basically my memoir. Now I just need to be brave enough to see it through.
Looking out into the crowd, I see Ms. Carter sitting in the front row, but I don’t find Sage. I can’t say that I’m surprised, but it still stings.
“We’ll start with Mommylicious,” BizzyBites says. “Meg, why don’t you tell us about how being a blogger has affected you both as a person and as a mother?”
My mom pauses and leans toward the crowd. She holds up a stack of Mommylicious magnets. “First of all, ladies, I have swag for anyone who’s looking for some, and what blogger doesn’t love swag? Come and get it after the panel!”
The crowd applauds. My mom is definitely among her people.
“I like to say that I’m mom first and a blogger second . . . ,” my mom starts to say.
As I’m trying to choke back my laughter, I spot Sage sliding into an empty seat in the back. She laughs when my mom says that, and a few ladies in the row in front of her turn, give her a look, and then shush her. I’m surprised that Sage came, but something about her being here calms me down—despite everything that’s happened.
My mom continues. “But I also think that being a blogger helps me to be a better mom. I try to live a purposeful life, and I try to share that experience on my blog. I’m always thinking about how I’m going to write something; it’s like I have a constant blogging narration going on in my head. I’d like to think that I make my decisions more carefully than I did before I started the blog. And I try to lead a life by example, not just for Imogene—but for my readers, too. I want to be a blog model!”
Sage coughs loudly. I’m happy she’s here even if we aren’t best friends anymore—even if we aren’t friends at all anymore. Her mom’s a blogger too, so she’ll always understand me in a way that no one else can.
My mom clears her throat and says, “Honestly, I don’t think I’d be as good of a mom without my blog. When I was first became a mother, my blog was what kept me going. If I was worried about something, I’d write a post about it and I’d get the most amazing feedback from my generous readers—many of whom are now my friends.”
A few women in the front row wave at my mom. She winks back at them.
“I’m happy to say that a few of those readers are even here today; they’ve stuck with me throughout the years. In the olden days, people had tighter-knit communities, and they could rely on the people around them. Nowadays people are more scattered, but the internet, especially blogging communities, helps to fill that void. Blogs are powerful. We are powerful,” my mom says.
I feel like I’ve heard this speech a thousand times. I turn my focus to channeling my courage. After fifteen years, I’m finally going to tell my mom how I feel. The Plan is on.
My mom pauses and clears her throat. She grips the folding table with one hand and takes a deep breath.
“I’ve never actually told anyone this before, but I was diagnosed with pretty serious postpartum depression after Imogene was born. There were days when I didn’t know where to turn. I thought I’d like being a stay-at-home mom, but I was lonely and confused. The blogging community saved me,” she says.
She wipes a genuine tear from her eye. I turn all the way toward my mom—startled by this confession. I never knew any of this.
The audience claps and leans in. Like them, I’m waiting to hear what she’ll say next—and for the first time in a long time, I’m going to try to listen.
It’s like what Grandma Hope said: “Sometimes it takes decades for the right words to reach our ears.” My mom’s blog might have evolved into some kind of monster, but I never actually thought much about why she started it in the first place. I still don’t want her writing about me, but I realize that she didn’t create the blog to harass me. She created the blog as a life raft for herself—for the both of us. But why couldn’t she have tol
d me about all this in private? Why is everything always public with her?
My mom starts speaking again. “Thank you all for being such an amazing community. I’m not sure who I’d be without y’all. And now, I’m going to pass the proverbial baton, or the proverbial mouse in our blog lingo, to my daughter, who started her very own blog this year.”
I look at my mom, and she’s smiling and wiping her tears with a Kleenex someone from the audience passed up.
I can see why she loves BlogHer. Here, she is a happy, popular blogger among friends and fans—even if her own daughter isn’t one of them. If she helps hundreds, even thousands, of people and the blog helps her, who am I to put a stop to that?
But can I continue to live life like this, in the shadow of Babylicious?
“Thanks for that amazing talk, Mommylicious,” BizzyBites says as she pushes the microphone toward me. “Babylicious, the floor is now yours.”
I look at Sage, and I swear she nods at me. Even after everything, I know that she’s still here for me in her own way. Maybe that’s what she was trying to tell me in the Everglades—that it’s okay for both of us to choose our own paths.
Then I look down again at both speeches, and I decide that I’m not going to read either of them. I can’t embarrass my mom in front of all her friends. This isn’t the right place to get through to her. The Plan is off.
I breathe in and begin. “Hi, everyone! I’m Imogene. Some people out there might think that my real name is Babylicious, but—it’s not. I actually checked my birth certificate once to make sure. My actual name is Imogene Georgia Luden, and I had a speech all prepared for you today. Actually, I had two speeches, but now I’m not going to read either of them. In you-people speak, I’m hitting the delete all button and I’m now free-writing.”
The crowd hushes as if something actually major has just happened. Maybe it has—at least for me.
I look toward Sage and she gives me a thumbs-up. I don’t know if she agrees with what I’m saying, but I like knowing that she’s here for me right now.
“To be honest with you all, I’ve wished for my entire life that my mom chose a different career. I even used to clip HELP WANTED ads from the newspaper and leave them on the kitchen table for my mom to see. And while I’ll admit I’m very tired of being her model and subject, I know that if I ever get amnesia, I will at least have her blog to help me remember the past fifteen years. I’ll be especially glad to relive my first period.”
The crowd laughs and my mom even lets out a small chuckle. I hold up my hand and continue.
“But in all seriousness, I want everyone here to know that my mom’s success isn’t magic. To have a popular blog like my mom’s, you also have to be extremely dedicated. It’s not something that just happens overnight. She works all the time on her blog. I have a blog now too, and I also know that what you post affects people. You have to really be strong to put up with the criticism. Sitting here in front my mom’s fans, I understand why she works so hard at her blog and that’s because it matters to a lot of people. Because of that, I’m proud of her.”
I look at my mom. “Thank you very much for having me here today. I learned a lot.”
The crowd claps softly as I pass the mic.
I study my mom and I try to gauge her face. Is she mad that I didn’t read the speech she wrote? Or is she confused over what my other speech was going to be? But I don’t see any anger in her face.
Even though I didn’t go through with my Plan to read my speech that ripped into her, I still feel a sense of relief. Maybe the Plan wasn’t such a good idea after all.
She whispers in my ear, “Thank you for that. That was way better than the speech I wrote for you. It had more heart.”
I smile back at her.
We meet up with Ms. Carter and Sage in the hotel restaurant after our panel.
“Thanks for coming to the panel,” I tell Sage. “I have gift for you.” I place a large rainbow cookie I bought from Starbucks in front of her.
Sage looks at Ms. Carter, who shrugs. “It’s vacation,” she says. “Or, at least, it’s vacation for me. I just love BlogHer. So many positive vibes. It’s like one giant rock crystal. Talk about good energy. And you ladies were just great. Especially with that impromptu speech, Imogene.”
“Thanks, Imogene,” Sage says just before taking a huge bite. She covers her mouth and mumbles, “You didn’t have to do this.”
“And you didn’t have to come to the panel,” I say.
Our moms smile at each other. I smile too. Maybe this is what rebuilding a friendship is like. One cookie at a time, if your friend is Sage.
“What was that other speech you mentioned, Imogene?” my mom asks me. “I’m just curious.”
Sage looks at me.
“I’ll give you that speech some other time,” I say. “I’ve been practicing it for a few years now. It’s not something I needed to say in front of your fans. It should be private. I know that’s a dirty word for bloggers, but some things are personal, and my speech is one of those things.”
Ms. Carter raises her eyebrows and gives my mom a look, but my mom turns to me and nods.
“Okay, we don’t have to talk about it here or now, but I’m making sure that you tell me about it soon.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Nineteen
THOSE SMALL MOMENTS
AS I’M PACKING UP MY BAG AND TRYING TO GET IT TO ZIP despite the bulge that the swag is making, I think about how BlogHer actually went okay. Sage and I attended a few events with our moms. I posed for a dozen pictures with readers, and I tried really hard to use my genuine smile. I even got some fashion bloggers’ contact information for Ardsley. Just because I’m not into blogging doesn’t mean I shouldn’t help out a friend—or something like that.
I’ve spent so much time worrying that people wouldn’t think there was more to me than Babylicious that I forgot that people are always going to see you differently than you actually are. But the ones who count will stick around and get to know you beyond appearances—or the online character your mother’s created out of you.
I hear a knock, knock at the door.
“Imogene, are you ready?” my mom says. “Everyone else has been waiting in the lobby for five minutes.”
I push down on the suitcase hard, and it eventually closes just enough to zip.
“Yup,” I say. “I’m ready.”
Downstairs, Sage and her mom are already sitting in our rental car. My mom and I put our luggage into the trunk and slide into the car.
Ms. Carter starts driving toward the highway. At a stoplight, she pauses a moment before she turns the wheel sharply and executes a U-turn.
“Where are you going?” my mom asks. “Did you forget something? That sign back there said that airport is the other way.”
Ms. Carter shrugs and points at the clock. “We’ve got a lot of extra time.” She motions to the road down on the right. “That’s my old street coming up. I want to show you guys where I grew up and where Sage was born.”
Sage rolls her eyes.
I feel sorry that Sage and her mom still aren’t getting along—at all. I know exactly what that’s like. I can’t believe it, but I actually am grateful for our panel. And happy I didn’t have to go through with the Plan.
As we drive down the street, I try not to fixate on how rundown and poor the neighborhood looks. Most of the houses are one-story and teeny tiny, and nearly all of them need a paint job. Outside some of the big apartment buildings, people stand around, even though it’s freezing out—like see-your-breath cold. I try not to notice when my mom presses down on her door’s lock.
“Is this where I was born?” Sage asks. Sage moved to Florida at four years old. She says that her only vivid memories of Minnesota involve making snow angels, putting on and taking off her snow boots and mittens, and riding
a log flume at the Mall of America.
“Yes,” Ms. Carter says. “We’re almost to our old place.”
Ms. Carter slows down and pulls in front of a one-story house with chipped paint. There’s a rusty chain-link fence and a KEEP OUT sign in the wild lawn.
Ms. Carter pulls out her iPhone and takes a few pictures through the car window. She frowns for a brief second. “It’s sad seeing how they let the place go. I have lot of great memories there.”
“It looks like they let the whole neighborhood go,” Sage comments with wide eyes.
Ms. Carter shakes her head. “No, the neighborhood has been like this since I was a little kid. It’s always been a little rough around the edges. We always kept our house up, though.”
Ms. Carter puts the car back into drive, and we start down the street again.
“A little rough around the edges?” Sage asks with her nose firmly at the window. “This place makes our neighborhood look like Disney World.”
“That’s why we moved to Florida, Sage,” Ms. Carter says. “It is Disney World compared to this neighborhood. The schools are better, and there’s half the crime. Why did you think we moved there?”
“The weather?” Sage answers sincerely. “Maybe the beach? Something about it being more organically in tune? I don’t know. I was little. . . . I never really thought about it.”
Ms. Carter smiles and says, “Actually, I liked the seasons here. There’s something nice about change four times a year. And while Minnesota doesn’t have the Gulf of Mexico, it does have over ten thousand lakes.”
Sage is quiet as we continue out of the neighborhood. Just before the entrance to the highway, there’s a large tan building with a blue cross hanging over the front door. Sage points to it. “I remember that place. I know that I remember it,” she says softly.
Outside of the building, snaking around a corner, is a long line of people.
“Is that a church?” I ask, pointing out the window.
Don't Call Me Baby Page 15
