As we’re moving slowly to the music, Dylan whispers, “You know that you owe me another date, right? This one was fun and all, but we spent half of it on Mission Sage.”
I lean my head on his shoulder. “Okay. When?”
“Tomorrow,” he says.
“Perfect. I even know where we should go,” I say. I lead us closer to Sage so I can be one of the first ones to give her a hug after she finishes the Rihanna song.
Tomorrow echoes in my ear.
At the beginning of the year, I thought that every day would always be the same, but change adds up fast. Of course, nothing changes the way you think it will or the way that you to try to make it change—but it always does change. Change is the constant.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:
hi! im writing my first email ever. going back to school this old is hard. but I think I’m catching onto this internet thing. even if I can’t figure out how to capitalize. IS THIS BETTER? I MISS TYPEWRITERS.
I WANTED to say how proud I am of you this year. I think my Georgia has grown up a lot. I think your mother has too. (My computer teacher is helping me now.)
I wanted to give you a piece of advice about life. You should print this email and hold on to it for when I’m back on the golf course.
Advice from Grandma Hope: It’s really, really easy to love something—or someone—once. It’s much harder to learn to love something—or someone—the second time, but it’s that second time that usually matters most. My injury reminded me that we shouldn’t limit ourselves to one love in our life. We should have many loves, whether that’s passions or people. I’m glad that I’m giving the internet a chance, and I might even finally accept a date from Fred, that old guy at the club who keeps pestering me.
Georgia, promise me this: Always be willing to love again. Loving once is easy. Loving twice is harder, but love anytime is always worth it.
Love,
Grandma Hope
PS Let me know that you got this. I still don’t trust these things.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject:
An old dog can learn new tricks!
I love you, Meg.
And no, I’m not starting a blog
Mom
The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: Life with VeggieMom
“Second Chances”
I’m a perfectionist. You have to be in order to be a classical pianist. If one note is wrong, you’ve messed up the entire piece. Each finger needs to be in a certain place at a certain millisecond. It’s not a passion that requires only natural ability; it’s a passion that requires relentless perfectionism. It’s as much of a science as it is an art.
Maybe I’m too hard on people because I’m a perfectionist. People aren’t pianos. You don’t hit a certain note and know what you’re going to get. I’m sorry, Mom, for not thinking about you and your passions more often. You’ve always done everything you can to support me and my music.
I know that food and what we eat is important to you. I know now that we didn’t always have food when we wanted it, and often we had to eat food that wasn’t good for us—just because it was free or cheap. I understand that you see healthy food as a form of love. I promise that I will keep trying your recipes, and I will try to only sneak fast food once a week . . . okay, once a month.
Thank you, VeggieMom.
Kale and carrots,
VeggieBaby (but only my mom can call me that)
PS Please come check out my mom’s and my new venture at the farmers’ market on Saturday.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter Twenty-Three
DAUGHTER OF SAGE
“SO WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE GOING, IMOGENE? I THOUGHT I was going to be the mastermind of this date,” Dylan says. He’s pedaling with his hands at his sides instead of on the handlebars. His black beach cruiser doesn’t shake at all.
Inspired, I let one then two hands off my handlebars. I find out that I can also ride without holding on.
“You’ll know when we get there.” I pedal hard enough that I take the lead. “Follow me, slowpoke,” I call out over my shoulder.
It feels good to know that neither my mom nor me is going to post about this date. I won’t have to, because I’ll remember every tiny detail as long as I live. And the details will be all mine.
Dylan pedals right back up to me. “I want to ride next to you.”
“If you put it that way, that’s fine.” I slow my pace and ride out of the shade and into the sunshine.
We approach a large parking lot near the Third Street shopping area.
“The farmers’ market?” Dylan asks.
Every Saturday morning, this parking lot is converted into a farmers’ market.
We find a bike rack and lock up our bikes.
“Imogene, I like you and all, but are we already at the ‘shopping for groceries’ stage?”
I laugh. “Our first date was only last night. We’ve got—I don’t know—a couple of more months before that,” I tease.
“You’re hysterical,” Dylan says as he loops his lock through both our front tires. “Anyone ever tell you that maybe you should start a blog?”
I put my hands on my hips.
“Too soon?” Dylan asks.
I give a laugh and smile to let him know that I’m definitely ready to joke about it—but there’s no way I’m starting a new blog anytime soon.
I grab his hand and pull him in the direction of the farmers’ market.
“Are we looking for organic candles? Homemade baby clothes? Honey from a local hive?” Dylan asks as we walk through the rows of tables. “McDonald’s should start a booth here. They’d make a killing. Everything else here is just so . . . homemade.”
He stops in front of Botanicals on the Gulf’s booth. He points at the flowers. “Is this why we’re here? You want me to buy you flowers? First grocery shopping and now this. I’m not sure my parents are going to be okay with us moving this fast.”
Admiring the flowers, I point to the largest bouquet, one made up of pink lilies and orange orchids. “That’s the one I want you to buy for me.”
Dylan’s eyes grow large like giant blue gumballs. “Seriously?”
“Of course not,” I say, and I pull him away from the table.
Dylan fake-wipes his forehead. “Phew,” he says. “I was going to have to get a job. My parents definitely don’t pay me that well for taking out the trash.”
Up ahead, Sage waves at me from her table. She nudges Ms. Carter, who sees us and also waves.
“Oh, I see now,” Dylan says. “You brought me to show off to your BFF.”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m bringing you to my BFF to show off how awesome she is.”
We make our way through the small crowd that’s gathered in front of Sage and her mom. They’re both wearing green aprons and Sage’s curly hair is pulled back in a thick braid. On their table, there’s a few small mason jars filled with different types of jams, each a different color. Taped above the table is an awesome banner that reads MOTHER OF SAGE. It’s written in a green font that looks like vines.
“This so genius,” I say, and smile at Sage. “I guess playing the piano’s not your only talent.”
Sage pulls her braid over her shoulder. “Thanks,” she says. “I even convinced my mom that we could add a dash of sugar to each jar. We met in the middle for once.”
Ms. Carter laughs and points toward herself. “Actually, I think I did most of the compromising. I didn’t want any sugar and I told you that I’d focus on Mother of Sage, not my blog.”
I raise my eyebrows and Sage smiles from ear to ear. I guess change is all around.
I pick up a jar filled with key lim
e jelly. The label design matches the banner and looks adorable. “How are sales so far today?”
Sage looks up from her accounting book and picks up a jar. “That’s our last key lime! We’ve already broken even, including the banner and rental spot at the market. Pretty stellar for our first day.”
I look around and point at the remaining jars. “It seems like everyone here is packing up their booths for the day. How about this: I’ll buy the rest of the jars, and then let’s all go to the beach. Before we know it, Naples is going to be bombarded with tourists. Let’s take advantage of the day.”
“You’ve got a deal,” she says.
Sage pulls out a simple brown paper bag stamped with the Mother of Sage logo and starts filling it with jams.
Dylan shrugs. “But what can I buy?” he asks, looking at the nearly empty table.
“You’ll have to place a special order or come back next Saturday,” Sage says seriously.
When Dylan takes off to find a restroom and some fried food, Sage gives her mom a look until finally Ms. Carter announces that she’s going to make a trip to the car.
The second they’re both out of earshot, I let out a shriek. “Ohmigosh, Sage. This year is turning out to be all right. We’ve figuring things out with our moms. You have this awesome business. You and Andrew are adorable. I’m on a date with Dylan. We’re having a total time.”
Sage looks around. “It has somehow turned out okay. It took us a while, but I like where we are now.”
I hand over my allowance to Sage. “And with each jar, you’re that much closer to Juilliard, if, of course, that’s what you decide you want to do.”
Sage mimics punching numbers into a calculator. “Actually, we’d have to sell about a half a million jars to pay for Juilliard. I did the stats last night, so maybe I’m still interested in applying there,” Sage says with a wink. “But I also read that they have a lot of scholarships available. So who knows? And, Imogene, it looks like you’re a half of a date away from being Dylan’s girlfriend.”
I’ve been my parents’ child, Sage’s best friend, the star of Mommylicious, and the author of a blog, but I’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend. I like the way that sounds.
“Shh. I see Dylan walking back over,” I whisper. Even though I’m really hoping this works out, I definitely don’t want him thinking that I’m planning our future children’s names. (I already did that back in eighth grade. Ophelia and Lawson.)
Sage starts cleaning up the table, but then she pauses. “Imogene, thank you for last night. Really. I’m happy that you made me play. Once I feel like the other problems with my mom are sorted out, I’m definitely going to start practicing again. Maybe I will even get into Juilliard. Thank you for reminding me how much I loved it. I think I can actually hear the music better without everything else that was in my head. Seriously.”
“I know what you mean,” I say as I help Sage clean the table. Since my mom and I talked, I’ve been able to see her beyond her blog—beyond her being Mommylicous.
When Dylan approaches the table, he pulls out two daisies from behind his back.
“One for each of the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters,” Dylan says. “Or are you all the Former Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters?”
Sage gives me an “Is this guy for real?” look. We both take the flowers and tuck them behind our ears.
“And if you could, like, not Facebook, Tweet, or blog that I just did that, that would be greatly appreciated. I need to be able to go school on Monday without being tormented by my friends.”
“Thank you, Dylan,” I say. I don’t care if I’m blushing the same color as a peony.
Ms. Carter comes back into the booth just as we promise not to post anything about it online. “Sage, can we get just one photo of us at our booth?”
Sage rolls her eyes. “That didn’t take long,” she says. “Once a blogger, always a blogger.”
“I want it for our Christmas card,” Ms. Carter says and rolls her own eyes. “Have a little faith in me.”
Sage hands me her mom’s cell phone. “One picture,” she consents. “That’s it.”
They smile, and luckily, the first shot is perfect.
Right after I hand back the phone, Ms. Carter says. “You know, it might make a great homepage picture for our website. Just saying.”
“See what I said,” Sage says. Then she gives her mom a hug.
“Beach time?” I ask.
“Beach time.”
The Blog Once Known as Mommylicious
Now MegLuden.Com
As you all have read recently, this has been a tough year, both as a mom and as Mommylicious. What I initially thought were silly, hormonal protests by my daughter to stop blogging about her turned out to be genuine requests for privacy. I understand now where she’s coming from.
I’ll admit that through the blog, I was trying to freeze-frame time. While the blog started out as a way to document Imogene growing up, I see now that it became my way of trying to keep her young forever. If I kept writing about Babylicious, she’d still grow up, but she’d resent me for trying to keep her under my thumb and microscope. I’ve learned that growing up isn’t only for kids . . . and sometimes it requires a healthy dose of letting go.
Although a great part of my life (and a source of great happiness) has been being Mommylicious, my role as a mother offline is what’s most important to me. With a heavy heart, I’m shutting down Mommylicious.com. To my faithful readers and sponsors, thank you for an amazing fifteen years. You are all in my thoughts and prayers.
In happier news, I’m starting a new blog. Before I was a blogger, I had always wanted to be a writer of fiction. Motherhood—and this blog—sidetracked me from this goal, but I’ve just completed my application to a Master of Fine Arts program for creative writing to get back into it. I’m hoping I’ll take all the lessons I learned about life and love from the blog and use them for the stories that have always danced around in the back of my head.
Also, I’ll be spending more time with my family—offline. I’ve been to the beach only three times in the last 365 days . . . and I live Florida . . . and I spent the entire time blogging about it. Imogene has showed me that sometimes you have to disconnect to reconnect, so I’m unplugging and heading to the beach.
Please STAY IN TOUCH and if you’d like, please read MY BLOG about trying to become a writer. I can’t promise that I’ll blog every day. But I do promise that when I do blog, I’ll really have something to say—and that it’ll be about only me.
Thanks for all the years.
Love Always,
Mommylicious
The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: The Girl on That Blog
“Don’t Dare Call me Babylicious . . . Signing Off”
Every other day, there’s a news piece about kids being so connected to the internet that they’re disconnected from everywhere else. There are even videos of babies trying to swipe actual magazine pages like they would do on an iPad screen. We’re living in a crazy world, one where we’re never completely in the minute because we’re so attached and wrapped up with our technology.
As I can well tell you, it’s easy to get your online identity mixed up with your real identity.
And it’s easy to hide behind a computer and say things that you’re too afraid to say in real life, or things that you shouldn’t be saying at all—online or offline.
And it’s easy to get caught up with people paying attention to you because of something that’s online about you.
And it’s easy just to point fingers and say that the internet is destroying our culture.
But we are the internet. We can choose to use it either to connect or disconnect from one another and from ourselves.
From now on, I’m going to focus on my real life connections. I’ll still continue blogging for English class, but I’ll be keeping it simple—and private. Maybe one day, I will have another personal public blog, but I seriously doubt it.
Yours Truly,
&nb
sp; Imogene
PS Check out my mom’s new blog: www.MegLuden.com
PPS My friend Ardsley has some great fashion advice on her blog. Warm weather readers, if you want to find out how to stay cool and stay stylish, go here: www.mermaidsmanicuresandmacaroons.com.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FIRST AND FOREMOST, THANK YOU TO MY READERS. I WRITE FOR you all. Please contact me at [email protected] with any feedback. I love hearing from readers, and your energy and support keeps me writing.
To Sarah Dotts Barley, my editor, I’m in your debt forever. Your intellect and wisdom made this book so much stronger. Thank you.
To everyone who worked on Don’t Call Me Baby at HarperTeen, this book is also yours. This book only exists because of your team efforts and collaboration. I appreciate everything that you all did in order to get this book into readers’ hands.
To my agent, Leigh Feldman, and her assistant, Jean Garnett, thank you for being both my sounding boards and my advocates. Your dedication and hard work allow me to focus on the other stuff, and I’m so thankful to you both.
To Sarah Burningham, my publicist, you continue to be my Little Bird. Thank you for helping get my characters and words out into the world.
To my friends, being an author can be lonely, but I’m lucky to have The. Best. Friends. In. The. World. Your friendship keeps me company even when I’m alone at my writing desk.
To Vermont College of Fine Arts, particularly my M.A.G.I.C. ifs, thank you, and YAM!
To my in-laws, sisters-in-law, and their husbands, I’m so lucky to count you all as family.
To my parents and my sister, Aliceyn, I couldn’t do anything without your outstanding and unfailing support and love. My accomplishments are also yours. You can’t choose your family, but I would choose you all if I could. Enmeshment is in.
Don't Call Me Baby Page 18
