Don't Call Me Baby Read online

  “How did you know that my grandma and I hang out?” I say even though that’s dumbest question ever coming from the daughter of a blogger. Just last weekend, my mom posted no less than twenty photos of me cheering on Grandma at her 70+ golf tournament at the Orange Grove. (She won, of course.)

  “I saw pictures on your mom’s blog. It was up on our family computer. I think my mom reads it sometimes,” he says. “Your grandma’s swing is murderous. Did you she really play in the LPGA?”

  For a very brief moment, I’m grateful for my mom’s blog, because it’s the only reason that Dylan is actually talking to me right now.

  “She did play professionally,” I say. “She’s got some pretty great stories about Arnold Palmer.”

  I’m about to start in on my favorite when Ms. Herring calls out, “Hey, everyone, time to quiet down and get to work.”

  Turning back toward my seat, I deflate a little that my conversation with Dylan has been cut short, and I haven’t been invited to the party.

  “Class!” Ms. Herring says.

  Nobody’s in their seats when the bell rings. Three weeks into the year, and students have already caught the attention-deficit bug. I blame it partly on living in Florida. This state isn’t conducive to school or learning. While it’s great to live somewhere where it’s always warm, it’s hard to pay attention somewhere that the sun is always shining and where the beach is ten minutes away.

  I smile at Dylan one last time, and I hope that I don’t look like a blush experiment gone very badly. Slowly, we all float to our seats, which weren’t assigned, but everyone still sits in the same spot every day.

  “Let’s talk about your experiences with your first personal blog posts,” Ms. Herring says.

  I look down because I’m afraid she’s going to start in on me and Sage. I wish we hadn’t sat in the front row on the first day. It was much easier to be brave alone with my computer.

  “Dylan,” Ms. Herring says, and points toward the back of the classroom.

  I whip around to see Dylan raising his hand. The room goes quiet. I think even Ms. Herring is shocked because Dylan never talks in class.

  “This is more of a question,” Dylan says. “If the blog is supposed to be like a diary, then we should just be writing to ourselves, right? But if it’s public, who are we writing to? And why are we sharing our lives with strangers?”

  Dylan’s hotness just went up ten-fold. Why are we sharing information with strangers? Why is my life on the internet for any weirdo to look at?

  Blogging is confusing.

  “That’s a great question,” Ms. Herring says. “But I don’t have any easy answer. It is an important objective in our school that ninth-graders become comfortable with writing about their lives before high school, but who you are writing to is a personal decision. However, knowing your audience is an extremely important part of writing. Let’s look at a few of your classmates’ blogs as examples.”

  She turns off the lights and pulls down the projector screen.

  With a few strokes on the computer, our entire class is staring at Sage’s blog—and then, my blog.

  “I wanted to commend both Sage and Imogene for setting their blogs to public. It’s very brave.”

  At first, everyone takes a moment to look at us as if we’re sea monsters. Then their eyes shoot back to the projector screen, where there are two windows open. One is open to Sage’s blog and the other is open to mine. As the class reads, I watch mouths drop. The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters are officially viral. There’s no going back now.

  After a few minutes, Ms. Herring turns the lights back on. “So, Imogene . . . Why did you choose to write about your mother? Is she your audience as well as your subject?”

  “I’m not . . . s-sure,” I stammer. “She’s been writing about me for so long that it was nice to finally have my own voice. I just had a lot to say.” As I’m speaking, I’m realizing how refreshing it is to finally get to narrate my own life.

  That’s what’s so exciting about this—I finally get to have my say.

  This is where I thought Ms. Herring would give us her lecture about how we need to be careful on the internet, how words can damage reputations, how everything we say online is permanent, basically give us our hundredth social media lecture. But she doesn’t.

  “I want to encourage everyone to be as courageous as Imogene and Sage. Of course, it’s up to you all if you want to make your blogs private or public. I don’t care either way. But I do want you guys to write about what’s personal, and the things that matter to you. I hope you take that to heart for the next entry. As much as I enjoy the show, I don’t think I need any more posts on So You Think You Can Dance? But, yes, I do agree that Leo should’ve been saved after that amazing modern dance solo.”

  As the class morphs into a reality TV show conversation, I sit back and realize that for the first time in my school career, I really feel proud of something. I’ve never been the student whose artwork got displayed in the school lobby or whose essays were handed out as examples of good writing, and I thought that didn’t matter to me. But it does—it feels great to be acknowledged. Sage’s glowing the same way she did after her last piano recital when she killed her Chopin piece, so I think she feels it too.

  After class, as I’m squeezing by Dylan’s desk, he reaches up and touches my arm.

  “Imogene,” he says. “I can’t believe how honest you were on your blog. I could never do that. My first entry was just about going paddleboarding, and my blog’s not even set to public.”

  I try not to move an inch and I hope that he’ll never let go of my arm.

  “Well, that sounds awesome to me. I’ve never been paddleboarding. I develop a shark phobia if I get too far from shore,” I say before pausing. “Just so you know, I didn’t think I could be that honest until I wrote mine too. It all kind of just came out. Like, I majorly blogged up.”

  I did not just say that—not here, not now, not with Dylan right here and now.

  “What’s ‘blogged up’?”

  I pause again. I have no choice but to answer. “It’s like vomiting but for blogging. Sage and I sort of made it up. I’m sorry—I know that sounds gross.”

  Dylan laughs and his hair falls over his left eye in the most adorable way. “Hey, just so you know, I’m having a party next Friday. You should come. Sage, too.”

  Unable to speak, I just nod as Dylan lets go of my arm and leaves the room.

  I swear I felt lighter in the water during swim practice. My coach even commended me on my kicking set. Buoyed by both my post and Dylan’s party invite, I nearly forgot to worry about what my mom’s going to say about my first blog entry.

  I almost even forgot that I used the words blogged up in front of Dylan.

  But the second I get off the bus in front of my house, I feel heavy, not unlike the way I feel the days we have to swim with weights for resistance. I open the door on the side of the garage, and I find Grandma Hope, my dad, and my mom sitting around our kitchen table. This confirms my sinking feeling.

  We’re not the type for huge family dinners. My grandma likes to do dinner herself; she’s big on maintaining her independence and watching the Golf Channel while she eats. My mom often spends that time working on her blog, and my dad’s not usually home for dinner.

  I’m well fed, but we don’t do the whole “sit around the table like we’re in an old-fashioned Norman Rockwell painting.” Of course, on the rare occasions when we do eat together, my mom’s sure to take one thousand photos and blog about our perfect family dinner.

  People say that a Christmas card shows a lot about how a family wants to be to seen. Just imagine that if, every day, your mom posted images of you and your family. You’d have thousands of visions of what your mom wants you and your family to be. But they always look like a scrapbook of someone else’s life.

  “Have a seat,” my mom says to me. Grandma Hope shoots her a disapproving look, but my mom doesn’t relax a muscle in her face—or in
her body. She’s as stiff as a taxidermy tarpon.

  I pull out a pastel pink chair and sit at our round dinner table, which is constructed entirely from old driftwood. My dad made it for my mom as a wedding gift. Our whole house has a very cool beach bungalow vibe. Usually it feels homey and airy, but right now it feels tense and tight.

  “I read your blog,” Mom says slowly.

  Obviously, I think.

  “Your mom is a bit . . .” My dad pauses and curls his front lip over his teeth. He sighs. “She’s been feeling a bit emotional. I think her feelings might have been hurt.”

  My mom grips the table with one hand as if she were on the teacup ride at Disney World and were trying to stop it from spinning.

  “You will delete it. I already emailed your teacher my thoughts on whatever she’s ‘teaching,’” my mom says. Her voice grows louder as she makes sweeping quotation marks with her fingers.

  “Let Imogene speak, Meg,” Grandma Hope says, waving her hand at my mom. “Maybe that’s what she’s doing with this whole thing. Trying to say something.”

  “Mom, your job is to blog,” I say slowly. “My job is to be a student and do well at school. Right now that means I also have a blog. If you let me approve what you post about me on your blog, then I’ll grant you the same respect and privilege. What about those unflattering photos from this weekend? Did you even think I just wanted to enjoy Grandma’s tournament, not be a cardboard prop for you to move around a golf course?”

  My dad, mom, and Grandma Hope all look up at me in surprise. All my life, I’ve tried to talk to my mom about the blog, but I’ve never really been so direct about it—until right now.

  “How did I look in the golf pictures?” my grandma asks with a smirk. She’s trying to break the tension, but it isn’t working. “I’m hoping you shot only my left side. That’s my good one.”

  “You looked like the ace you are,” I say. I need to do everything I can, including sucking up, to keep Grandma Hope on my side.

  My dad jumps from his chair and swiftly moves into the kitchen. “Why don’t we eat dinner?” He picks up a tray and carries it over to the table. He worked his way through college as waiter, and it shows. He sets the tray down in front of us. “I marinated chicken breasts in apricot jam. We can talk about this when everyone is less hungry and sensitive. Nobody should ever talk about the big stuff without a full stomach.”

  No one says a word over dinner. We all quietly eat then wash our own dishes.

  Before I go up to my room, my mom stops me and says, “Imogene, you looked very preppy chic in those golf pictures. I don’t understand why you’re so insecure. You’re so beautiful. A lot of the readers have been commenting on how pretty and grown-up you are looking these days.”

  I don’t respond; I know she’s just trying to get me to cave in like I always do. It’s Mommylicious’s way.

  But I’m not giving up that easily today. For the first time ever, my mom is finally beginning to know what it feels like to be me.

  The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: The Girl on That Blog

  “Let’s Make a Deal”

  THIS is a picture of my mom sleeping. Isn’t it cute?

  THIS is a picture of my mom eating. Isn’t it cute?

  THIS is a picture of my mom blogging. Triple cute.

  That’s all for today, folks.

  Skulls and Bones,

  Don’t Dare Call Me Babylicious

  The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: Life With VeggieMom

  “I Said I was Looking at New School Shoes, But I Was Really . . .”

  Eating at Panda Express. The lo mein was delish! I could even taste the MSG. My only regret: I wish I had ordered an egg roll.

  Then I went to Chick-fil-A. Their biscuits are to die for. I can taste the butter in nearly every bite. Awesome.

  Read my mom’s post about how fast food is killing our youth HERE. I’m sure she’ll be grateful for the page clicks.

  Yours Truly,

  Fast-FoodBaby!

  Mommylicious

  “To Ground or Not to Ground? That Is the Question.”

  Hello, readerlicious!

  Hope everyone is having a great Friday. I taste tested Welch’s new organic fruit snacks and my mouth is still tingling. Totally juicilious. Read my review HERE.

  Today, of course, is BIG QUESTION DAY, when I ask a parenting question and give my opinion. In the old days the BIG QUESTIONS were somewhat easier. Breast milk or formula? What’s too young for a sleepover? What to do with a chronic bed-wetter? (Luckily, Imogene’s grown out of that phase.) Writing about parenting questions has always helped me reflect on how I can be the best mommy I can be.

  But as Imogene is getting older, the questions are getting harder and harder to answer. And I’m becoming less and less sure of my own answers. Anyone else out there having a similar experience?

  This week’s question—To ground or not to ground?—is a tricky one. Recently Imogene crossed some no-no boundaries and she’s refusing to a) apologize or b) promise that she won’t do it again. I’m not going to go into all the details, but I’m currently deciding (with some help from Daddylicious) whether we’re going to ground her for the weekend. Apparently, there’s some big pool party, so she would definitely be upset. But the question remains: Will she learn her lesson?

  What do you readers think? Does grounding work? I can’t say I have an answer myself. This is uncharted territory.

  Butterfly Kisses,

  Mommylicious

  PS Look at these delicious chicken breasts Hubby made. Recipe HERE! What a great family dinner we had. Check out THIS family pic. (I think I caught them by surprise! Oops! Next time I’ll remember to say cheese.)

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Chapter Seven

  THE ARMISTICE

  IT’S NEVER A GOOD THING TO HAVE TO STAY AFTER CLASS, BUT it’s Shakespearean-level tragic when it’s the last period on a Friday and there’s a pool party in four hours. A pool party that your moms are threatening to ground you from going to because you keep blogging about them. A pool party that you must go to because your crush will be there, and you want him to ask you to the Pirate’s Booty Ball more than anything—except maybe getting your mom to stop blogging about you.

  Once the other students leave the classroom, Ms. Herring closes the door behind them and sits at her desk. “Girls, your last posts were . . . interesting.”

  In the eighth grade, our English teacher instructed us to never use the word interesting. She said it’s hollow and vague. After hearing Ms. Herring say it, I have to agree with her. It’s also scary.

  “Thanks, I’m glad that you liked them” Sage says. She taps her fingers on Ms. Herring’s desk.

  Sometimes I catch Sage pretending to play the piano on any surface she can find. Her desk. The lunch table. A car’s dashboard. I tease her that she probably does it in her sleep, too. She’s as passionate about it as her mom is about being vegan.

  Ms. Herring sighs deeply. “I wasn’t using the word interesting as a compliment, Sage. While I think it was very brave of you two to make your blogs public and to write about a topic that is personal to you, your last few posts have been devoid of any real subject or service. I was a little worried about the tone in the first posts, but I think my excitement over the project took over and I might have encouraged you girls in the wrong direction. I apologize if I did. I want you to know that these recent posts went in a different direction from what originally I intended for this project.”

  She doesn’t say it in a mean voice, but there’s an adult tone to it. It’s definitely not the same voice she uses when she mentions So You Think You Can Dance?.

  If these blogs are supposed to be about our lives, shouldn’t they reflect how we feel? Why do we have to change our tone if it’s genuine to our feelings?

  Ms. Herring purses her lips.

&n
bsp; “I’m worried that you girls are using these blogs to attack your mothers and their blogs rather than write about your own lives,” she adds.

  Now I want to scream. Our lives and our mothers’ blogs are tangled like a knot. Our lives are their blogs. Instead I ask calmly, “Are you a blog reader?”

  The clock is ticking, and I need make sure this meeting doesn’t last any longer than it needs to.

  “I do read quite a few blogs,” she says. “I’ve even been thinking of starting my own.”

  Of course, everyone and their goldfish are thinking about starting a blog. Everyone except for me and Sage . . . until now.

  “Do all the blogs you read have a clear subject or a service?” I ask.

  “Most do,” she says after a pause.

  Sage leans over Ms. Herring’s desk. “But many don’t, right? Many are just pictures of their kids looking cute or food diaries or other pointless junk. So what you’re really saying is that you don’t want us to write an honest blog. You want us to write something entirely different.”

  “I want to read something that matters to you—not something that you’re writing just to bother your moms,” Ms. Herring says. “That said, I support protecting freedom of speech, and I won’t stand for the banning of a book—or a blog. Please know that I’m not censoring you two in any way, but I did promise your mothers that I’d speak with you. As I’m sure you both know, they are both very upset.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Sage says, shifting her body weight back. “These posts do matter to us and we’re not doing them just to bother our moms. But we heard what you just said to and we’ll talk with our moms. We promise.”

  Sage gives Ms. Herring a sympathetic look while she picks up her book bag and waits for her to say it’s okay for us to leave. Finally Ms. Herring gives us a defeated wave and says, “Have a nice weekend.”