Page 4 of From Maybe to Baby

I bid good-bye to surfer dude and return to my suite where I'm mourning my future when my mom pings me with a video call. Her name, Trina Greenwald, appears on my screen with her chosen contact photo—her passport filled with stamps, positioned artfully next to a glass of French wine. Like mother, like daughter.

"How's paradise, honey?" She's in her Paris studio, paint splattered across her overalls in a way that isn't intentional but is Instagram-worthy anyway. She's been there six months this time—her longest stay anywhere since the divorce, when she changed her name from Minty back to Greenwald.

Among the many things we have in common is an inability to stay anywhere long enough to put down roots.

"Mom. Paradise is about to become Purgatory. Ryan's sending me to Hawaii..."

"Poor baby. What a tragedy," she interrupts, rolling her eyes while dabbing a color only she would call ochre onto what looks like a sunset. Or maybe it's a giraffe. Her art is very... interpretative.

"…to write about family resorts."

Her paintbrush freezes mid-stroke. She turns back to the phone screen, as stricken as I hoped she would be. "Oh, honey," she says like somebody died.

"Two weeks of sticky fingers and screaming tiny humans, Mom. I am freaking the fuck out."

She winces at my use of the F-bomb, more out of maternal obligation than really being offended by it. "Well, at least it's temporary." She wipes her hands on her overalls. "Unlike marriage."

I watch her add another splash of color to her maybe-sunset-maybe-giraffe, wondering if this is the moment she'll launch into her favorite cautionary tale. Three... two... one...

"Did I ever tell you about the day I realized I had to leave your father?"

Bingo.

“Mom, can I first tell you how I landed in this situation?”

"Let me get this straight."I pace my ridiculously luxurious terrace. Bali colada, cocktail number three, provides zero clarity to the situation, but it has given me the liquid courage to think I can change my boss’s mind. "You want me, Ryan—the woman who once wrote a viral article titled 'Why Your Disney Vacation is Ruining My Luxury Resort Stay'—to write about family-friendly destinations?"

"Think of it as a growth opportunity," he says, with all the smug authority of someone whose biggest daily challenge is deciding which coffee shop to work from. "Your trademark humor, but family-friendly."

"That's an oxymoron. Like, it’s not possible. Not at all."

"Alexa, I know what an oxymoron is, and this is not it. This is marketing genius. Look, your numbers are great with the child-free crowd, but?—"

"But nothing. I've spent five years building this brand. Five years of carefully curated content. Do you know how many sponsored posts I've turned down because they included family-friendly amenities?"

"Thirty-seven. I counted them, Alexa. That's part of the problem."

I stop pacing. "Since when is having standards a problem, Ryan?"

"Since our demographic research showed that sixty percent of your followers are actually parents who live vicariously through your posts. They love your lifestyle but can't actually do it. Now imagine if we gave them content they could actuallyuse."

"They can use my content. After their kids turn eighteen."

"Alexa." Here comes his scolding tone. "Your whole brand is about challenging comfort zones. Pushing boundaries."

"Yes, by jumping out of planes and eating questionable street food in Bangkok. Not by reviewing the child menu at theme parks."

"Think bigger." I hear him leaning forward at his desk, sipping that nasty mushroom coffee he swears by. "What if, instead of just showing people how to travel without kids, you showed them how to travel betterwith them? I can see it like this—'Yes, this resort has a kids' club, but the margaritas are strong enough to make you forget that.'"

"You've been workshopping that line, haven't you?" I sighed.

"All morning. But Alexa, think about it. Every other family travel blogger is all sunshine and rainbows, posting posed photos of their color-coordinated families on beach swings. You could be different. Real. The voice for parents who miss adult conversations and uninterrupted spa days."

"But I'm not a parent."

"Exactly. You're the outsider's perspective. The aunt who shows up, sugars up the kids, and judges everyone's life choices. Parents will Eat. It. Up."

I sink into a lounge chair. "I have a contract, you know. My niche is specifically?—"

---