Bing chimes my phone. Again.
Mom: I’m coming to pick you up in 10 minutes. Stop ignoring my texts. 10-4.
I sigh because the party’s just getting fun.
Everyone keeps asking about our blogs and Katy Perry’s blasting on the outdoor speakers and Luz just put out an ice cream sundae bar and I almost have the courage to talk to Dylan, who’s spent most of his own party being quiet and watching TV.
“My mom’s coming in ten,” I whisper to Sage. “She never lets me have any fun.”
Sage licks her ice cream to prevent it from melting. She was all over the sundae bar.
“Do you mind if I catch a ride?” Sage asks. “I need to practice piano, and I want to work on my blog, too.”
“Wow,” I say. “You’re being super-serious. I was just going to watch TV and go to bed.”
“Imogene,” she says, pointing her cone at me. “You should work on your blog too! After all, the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters was your idea. You’re not all of the sudden bowing out just because our moms threatened to ground us, are you?”
I don’t answer her right away. I want more than anything for my mom to stop blogging about me, but I also don’t want to be grounded. The point of all this is for us to have a normal life. But Sage is right. I can’t give in this easily.
“I’m in. I’m in,” I say. “Don’t worry, Sage. Be right back,” I say, standing up to find Dylan.
I spot him sitting on a chair alone near the TV. I’ve gone to school with Dylan since forever, but I don’t really know him. I don’t think anyone does. He’s popular with everyone, yet doesn’t have any close friends—or a girlfriend.
“Hey, Dylan,” I say, making my way toward him. “Thanks for the great party. My mom’s picking me up, and she won’t take no for an answer, otherwise I’d stay longer.”
“That’s nice of her,” he says, looking up at me.
“Trust me,” I say. “You wouldn’t want my mom. Your mom has a life. My mom has a blog.”
“I think you’re too hard on her,” Dylan says. He looks away from me back to the TV.
“Excuse me—” I start to say just as Sage yells, “Imogene, your mom’s here!”
In the distance, I can hear Ardsley calling, “Babylicious, Mommylicious is here!” but I don’t even care. All I care about is that Dylan and I are having a conversation—maybe even the beginning of an argument—and I have to leave.
Does Dylan read my blog outside of the time Ms. Herring showed it to everyone? And if he does, what does that mean? Why does he think I’m too hard on her? He doesn’t know me.
I turn to head toward the sliding doors to the kitchen as I try to figure out what he just meant by that. Before I walk away, I softly say, “I’m not too hard on her. It’s complicated.”
“Just my opinion,” Dylan says, waving his hand as if to say “no big deal.” “No hard feelings. Thanks for coming, Imogene.”
Sage raises her eyebrows at me as we make our way through the house and out the front door to my mom’s car.
Just as I’m opening the door to the backseat to get in, my mom snaps a picture of me on her phone. I can usually guess which pictures I end up looking cross-eyed in, and that definitely was one of them. Awesome.
“So cute!” she says. “My baby after a pool party. You aren’t blushing, are you, Imogene? Is there some boy you like? Was there a good-night kiss?”
Sage stifles a laugh, and I nudge her in the ribs.
“It’s not funny,” I say to Sage. “And, Mom, by the way, I wanted to let you know that everyone loves my blog. Sage’s, too. We already have a major following. In fact, I think I’m even starting to understand what’s like to be a blog celebrity like you.”
My mom purses her lips, turns around, and starts the car.
The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters is so on.
Mommylicious
“How to Deal”
Dear Readers,
Thanks for all your advice about setting boundaries and outlining consequences. I think that I finally got through to Imogene, aka Babylicious. Three cheers for all the moms out there with teenagers. We definitely deserve Nobel Peace Prizes. Keep up the hard work.
In other news, Imogene went to the pool party. And she wore a two-piece!!! By the way, she’s going to review Roxy’s collection soon. Thanks, Roxy. Dig This Life.
I definitely think there’s a boy in Imogene’s life. All the telltale signs are there: spending extra time getting ready, blushing, daydreaming, being short with her mother. To be honest, I’m not sure that I’m ready yet for her to have a boyfriend.
Mommies out there, isn’t it hard letting your kids grow up? How do you give your kids space but still feel like you know them? One day you’re the center of their world; the next they don’t even want you to be seen with them. What’s a good mommy to do?
In other news, next weekend I’ll be giving a Mom-to-Mom talk at the Woman’s League of Orlando on “Creating and Sustaining Your Own Online Business.” Tickets are fifty dollars apiece, and I promise to hand out some never-been-told-before parenting and blogging gems! GET THE TICKETS while they’re hot!
Butterfly kisses,
Mommylicious
The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: The Girl on That Blog
“Babylicious Can Give Tips Too!”
Mommylicious Parenting Tip #17
“Give children choices. Kids like to feel as if they at least have a choice in the matter. Yes, they must get clean. But let them choose between a bath and a shower. Yes, they must go to sleep, but let them choose the bedtime story. I promise giving kids choices leads to having happy children.” —Advice from Mommylicious.com
I guess this doesn’t apply to teenagers, huh? When’s the last time I had a choice about anything?
For example, was I asked if I wanted to fly across the country to attend a blogging conference? Nope.com.
Babylicious Truth #1
Just because Mommylicious gives advice, doesn’t mean she follows it. Do as she says, not as she does.
And even if the consequence of blogging the truth is being grounded, I’m still going blog.
Skulls and Bones,
Don’t Dare Call Me Babylicious
The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: Life With VeggieMom
“The Absolutely True Confessions of a Junk Food Baby”
My mom says if I blog again and she doesn’t like it, I’m grounded. Most days, life with my mom already feels like prison, so I don’t think being grounded will feel that different. I already know one thing: This jail’s food sucks!
And . . . at the pool party, I ate one ice cream cone, which was definitely not organic. I also ate seventeen maraschino cherries, which are definitely not in season. Ever.
Truly Yours,
VeggieBaby Fights Back.
PS Mom, I don’t like your homemade tofu. I lied. Repeatedly.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Nine
TREASURE HUNTING
AT LUNCH ON MONDAY, SAGE AND I SIT WITH ANNE AND Mackenzie, who make us feel like total superheroes (their words, not ours) for continuing with the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters.
“We’d for sure make plans with y’all for this weekend,” Anne said. “That is, if you both weren’t going to get grounded for life tonight.”
It’s amazing how simply writing something online equals instant popularity points. I wonder if this is how little kids feel after they make a cool YouTube video and, a week later, are in Los Angeles taping The Ellen DeGeneres Show.
Some kids from the sixth grade, who aren’t even on my radar, pointed at me in the hallway and one whispered audibly: “That’s the girl from the mommy blog, but now she, like, has her own blog about her mom. It’s totally a mom-daughter blog war.”
The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters posts have even spread to the lower grades. And a blog war? I k
ind of like the way that sounds.
Very twenty-first century.
Also, Dylan waved hi to me as he walked into English class. So other than it potentially being my last day of freedom, Monday has actually been pretty great.
But as soon as I walk in the front door after swim practice, I hear my mom call out “Im-O-gene.” Whenever she goes long on the “O,” I know that I’m in for it.
I follow her voice, and I find her sitting in an armchair in our living room, which is strange since, like most normal people, we rarely spend any time in our living room. We go into ours only for video house tours (it’s a blog thing—don’t even get me started), and for my mom’s annual Christmas blogtail party.
My mom points at a matching armchair. “Sit down.”
Sinking into it, I remember why no one actually hangs out in living rooms. They’re formal and uncomfortable, all about showing rather than about living.
“First of all, and this goes without saying, you’re grounded,” my mom says. “Your last post was just mean, Imogene. I can’t have my own child mock me on the internet. If you’re so angry with me, why don’t you just talk to me about it?”
I laugh. I tried hard not to, but if I didn’t let this laugh out, I would’ve choked on it. I cross my legs, trying to get into a sort of comfortable position.
“If you think I have a boyfriend, why don’t you just ask me instead of writing about it on the internet? By the way, I so do not and probably never will because of you and your blog.”
I rest my head on my hand and breathe in. I look at my mom. “And now all of sudden, you’re wondering why I don’t just talk to you instead of writing something on the internet. That’s how you communicate, Mom. It’s how you’ve communicated for a long time. I’m just following your lead.”
I can’t believe I said what I just said. I’ve never spoken to her like this.
My mom shifts her weight in her chair and pauses. I’m hoping it’s a life-altering pause that means she finally gets what I’ve been trying to tell her.
“Imogene, I know that the teen years are rough and that you’re going through an independent phase. I’m trying to understand, but I absolutely can’t allow you to jeopardize my career and the website that I’ve built from the ground up. Do you know how many unique visitors I have every day? If my own daughter is writing terrible things about me on the internet and someone finds them, how does that make me look? Trust me, I have plenty of enemies online, but I can’t allow my daughter to be one of them. I want you to think about what this means for someone other than yourself,” she says.
She stands up, then pauses to rub at the Oriental rug with her toes. “You’re grounded until I say you’re not anymore. You will apologize to me, and then you will delete all the posts I say. Also, if you continue blogging publicly for your class, I will need to preapprove each post, Imogene. I’m not having my career ruined over a school project.”
I should’ve known that pause meant that she didn’t get it. She’s never “gotten” it. Not the time that she missed my swim championship for a blogging networking event. Not the time that I insisted she not write about a big fight that Sage and I had and she still did. Not ever.
Now I’m grounded because I told her how I feel, and she still doesn’t get it. She cares more about her PR than me. It’s always how it looks and never how it is—just like this living room. What I want to say to my mom is, Where’s your apology? The one where you ask me to forgive you for turning me and my life into a blog?
She’s worried about her career. Well, Mom, I’m worried about my life, which I think is a little more important than your career.
My mom leaves the room, and I just sit, dazed at how moms can be so clueless, especially mine, a self-professed mommy expert.
I feel my phone vibrating in my backpack, and I pull it out.
Sage: Grounded indefinitely. Total bloodbath over here.
Me: Me too.
Sage: I know it’s worth it still. See you tomorrow.
Throughout the week, the rumors circulating about the Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters churn like a tropical storm that’s gaining force. Even Ardsley asked me if it was true that my mom took away my computer and donated it to Goodwill. Totally false, but I’m happy that Ardsley’s actually talking to me rather than just teasing me. Modest progress.
Somehow, although I’m grounded and my mom can’t stand to look at me, I feel better than I have in a long time.
Fortunately, it’s also finally Friday, and my mom’s going to Orlando for a blogging event. Of course, I’m still on house arrest, but at least I’ll be free of her.
“I’m home,” I call out after swim practice on Friday. “Did Mom leave my ball and chain?”
To my surprise, when I walk into the house, I find both my grandma and my dad sitting on the couch together.
“No golf today? I thought Friday was your most lucky day.” I plop my tote bag down on a leather chair.
Grandma Hope always plays Friday afternoons with her friends. They call it their Friday Fun in the Sun Club.
Grandma Hope points to her left wrist, which is wrapped in an ACE bandage. “Georgia, honey, I’m in the reserves now.”
“Oh my God. What happened?” I exclaim. “Are you okay?”
“It was on the fifth hole,” Grandma Hope says, squinting her eyes. “That’s our par three, and I always hook it just a little. But today I overcompensated and I sliced it, and it ended up lying awkward near a banyan tree root. I went to chip it in and bam! Heavens! I’ve always hated that hole.”
“English, not Golf-speak, Grandma,” I say. “What did the doctor say? Are you all right?”
In my whole life, my grandma’s practically never complained about a headache. When she came to live with us, she even insisted on helping the movers carry boxes. Her motto is “I’ll catch up on rest when I’m dead.”
“No, I’m not okay,” Grandma Hope says breathlessly. “I can’t play golf for four weeks. Can you believe that, Georgia? I’m not even allowed to putt, not even that silly mini putt-putt with windmills, waterfalls, bridges, trolls, and whatnot. I asked about that because I was flat desperate. I’ve never had to take this much time off from golf, not even when your mom was born. I had her—she was nine pounds, three ounces I might add— and I still shot a seventy-five three weeks later.”
I look at my dad. He nods at me.
“Hope’s going to be fine. It’s a sprain,” he translates.
I sigh in relief and plop down on the couch.
“Well, at least, she’ll be physically okay. Mentally . . . I’m not so sure,” he adds.
“If you weren’t my favorite son-in-law . . .” Grandma Hope gently whacks Dad with her good hand.
My dad shrugs. “I’m your only son-in-law.”
“Exactly,” Grandma Hope says.
My mom is an only child. Grandma Hope always says, “My other kid is golf, and luckily, I always know my score with that one and I even get a handicap to boot. Wish it were that easy with your mother.”
Grandma Hope takes the remote from my dad and programs it to channel 723, the Golf Channel. “I guess I’ll just have to watch other people play golf for a month, which is like forcing a dieting woman to watch Paula Deen cook meat loaf and bake pies. It’s just flat-out cruel.”
“I’m indefinitely grounded too, Grandma Hope,” I say. “We can be shut-ins together. Did Mom still leave for Orlando?”
“Yes,” Grandma Hope says. She pushes her fingers under the bandage and massages her wrist. “She took me to the hospital and then dropped me off at home before she headed out. She got a few pictures first. . . . Hey, Georgia, when are you two going to figure this thing out? This house is turning into a skating pond with all the thin ice around here. Now we’re all trapped together, and I can’t even escape to the golf course.”
I cozy up on the couch between my dad and Grandma Hope. “I’m sorry, Grandma Hope. But I think that my blog is important, and I might finally be getting somewh
ere, even if I’m technically not going anywhere, since I’m grounded.”
“Well, that’s good that you think it’s working,” Grandma Hope says. “I have a rule about not reading anyone’s blog. I read your mom’s once—and believe me, that didn’t end a million miles near good. Don’t worry, I’m not going to read yours. It’s such a blessing that I don’t know how to use the internet.”
My dad coughs loudly. “Excuse me, what about me?” my dad asks. “Do I have to be stuck here on a beautiful Friday night with you two prisoners? I hope you realize that people work their butts off for their entire lives to retire to Florida. And what are we doing?” He points at at the TV. “We’re watching old fogies hit a tiny white ball and wasting our good fortune of calling Florida our home. We’re almost as bad as your mother,” he says to me, “and your daughter,” he says to Grandma Hope, “who spends her entire life behind a computer screen.”
“I can’t,” I answer. I put my hands behind my back like I’m being handcuffed. “I’m grounded, remember.”
My dad rolls his eyes at me. He takes my grandma’s good arm and pulls her up off the couch.
“You’re allowed to go on a walk with your family, Imogene. Personally, I hope you two quit this nonsense soon. I just want a happy family. Is that too much for a man to ask? This place is one combustible ball of estrogen.”
I begin to feel guilty again that my dad’s stuck in the middle of all this.
Grandma Hope shakes her head. “We have to let Georgia make her own decisions, but I’m hoping this all ends soon too. Otherwise, I’m going to need some ice skates,” she says. “At least you can skate just fine with a bum wrist.”
While I’m laughing at the idea of my grandma skating around our kitchen, I watch my dad check the grandfather clock and then pluck his iPad off the kitchen counter.
“We still have that app for the tides, right?” he asks while swiping away at his iPad. I notice his fingers are covered in ink, which is a telltale sign he’s been working on blueprints today.
Don't Call Me Baby Page 7