Page 3 of You Will Never Be Me

Ben glanced up from the table, where he was feeding Sabine mashed peas, but he was wise enough not to say anything. I saw how his mouth pressed into a thin line, though, and it was enough to get my hackles up. I ignored them both, my silently critical husband and my rebellious six-year-old, and focused on taking the perfect shot of the pancakes.

Never mind the ruined shots, I thought.The news I’m about to share is going to make everything okay.

I served the pancakes and fruits and yogurt, then, as everyone tucked in, I cleared my throat and said, “I have some really exciting news to share.”

Ben barely looked up, he was so disinterested in what I had to say. I ignored his rudeness and said, “A producer contacted Mommy this morning. His name is Damien Kim, and he’s shooting a Netflix show about influencers and their lifestyles. Each influencer will get a thirty-minute episode to themselves, and he wants to meet with me to see if we’d be a good match.” I ended the announcement with an expectant smile, but not even Noemie looked excited at this. Instead, my family stared at me like I’d asked them to clean the toilet with their bare hands.

“What does that mean, Mommy?” Noemie said finally.

“Well, it means we might have a show that’s all about our family,” I said brightly.

“And have a bunch of cameras recording our every move?” Ben said. “I don’t think so.”

“Ben, please,” I said, and even I hated how pathetic I sounded. Groveling and begging for my family’s cooperation, like always. When I read Damien’s email, I’d been so exhilarated, so carriedaway by all of the possibilities, that I hadn’t paused to think that my family might not be on board. But why wouldn’t they be? If we played this right, our single episode could be so well received that we could end up with our very own show. Then maybe I could finally stop feeling like I’m on a hamster wheel, needing to come up with nonstop content to feed to the perpetually hungry social media machine. But my family, spoiled by my success, had no idea how I was breaking my back to earn as much as I could for their sake. This huge opportunity was nothing more than a blip in their day. I couldn’t afford to get into an argument with Ben over this right then, though, so I merely said, “You know what? Let’s discuss this later this evening, okay?”

The second time I almost snapped at Elea was when I tried to get a photo of Elea and Noemie in their matching outfits—powder-blue dresses with little strawberry prints all over them, cream-colored knit cardigans, black leggings, and red ribbons in their hair to match the strawberries. They looked so Instagrammable. They always look Instagrammable; that is the whole fucking point. But while Noemie stood there smiling obediently—my sweet, darling Noemie—Elea kept making horrible faces at the camera. And you know what? I rolled with it. I took photos anyway and uploaded them to my Stories with the caption, “Sugar and spice, lol.” As I was uploading the photos, Elea shouted, “LET’S GO MOM COME ON I’M SICK OF THIS,” and once more, I begged, “Please be patient, Elea; you know I need to do this.”

Inside my head a voice whispered,I’m sick of her, and although I didn’t say it out loud, hot shame burned through my entire being.

Number three: As I plopped baby Sabine down on the frontyard next to Elea and Noemie, I noticed that her strawberry-red headband was gone. I groaned; I’d put that headband on Sabine to match the twins’ ribbons. Without it, the entire photo would be ruined. Then I saw it sticking out of Elea’s cardigan pocket. I snatched it out and said in a barely controlled voice, “Sweetheart, why would you take this off? You know how hard it is to put a headband on your sister.”

Elea lifted her chin defiantly. “Yeah, because she hates it, and you shouldn’t make her wear it if she hates it. No means no,Mom.” Never has the word “Mom” been said with so much venom.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down before I snapped at her. When the girls were born, I made a promise to myself never to raise my voice at them except when they were in danger, but by god, Elea was testing me.

“Well, please don’t do that again, okay?” I said through a gritted smile. I stretched the headband and put it on Sabine’s bald head. A frown scrunched her chubby baby face. She pulled at the headband, and it went over her eyes, which made her fuss. Great, just great. “Come on, pumpkin,” I cooed, adjusting the headband. “Please, just for one minute, okay? Do this for Mommy, please, baby girl.” Not that she would understand anything I was saying, but hopefully the soothing tone of my voice would help calm her as I put the headband back in place.

It didn’t. She started wailing. I dipped into my Luna’s All-Natural Vegan Leather Mommy’s Hands-Free Purse. Really, it was just a glorified fanny pack, but Luna Rose, the company that paid me over fifty grand to advertise it, had been insistent that I never call it a fanny pack, so I made a habit of calling it my “hands-free purse,” even in my head. When you’ve got over five millionfollowers watching your every move, it pays to be meticulous. And anyway, the Luna Hands-Free Purse really was a genius creation. It was divided into three sections, and into one section I had dumped a handful of sugar-free, freeze-dried yogurt melts. I fished out one of the yogurt melts and offered it to Sabine.

“My teacher said you shouldn’t use food as a reward,” Elea said.

I ignored her and the twinge of guilt because she was right. But, I reminded myself, at least it’s sugar-free. Sabine took my offering and sucked on it happily, letting me adjust her headband. Once it was in place, I ran back a few paces and raised my camera. No time to hesitate; the yogurt melt would only buy me fifteen seconds, tops. I took a dozen photos from various angles and was rewarded with smiles from Sabine and Noemie. None from Elea, of course, but I could Photoshop the corners of her mouth later on to give her a less surly look.

Then it was a mad rush to bundle everyone into the car; a quick snap of them safe and snug with me tagging the company that had paid me to advertise their car seats. I posted them to my Stories, and the Likes poured in before I was even out of the driveway.

Elea refused to give me a hug at the school drop-off, so I—fully conscious of the judgy stares from the other parents around me—made sure to lavish Noemie with a tighter hug and smoochier kiss than usual. She squirmed and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not sad,” I said brightly, and she just looked at me knowingly. Noemie has always been an old soul. “Don’t forget your morning snack, sweetie.”

She gave me a thin-lipped smile, and the crack in my heartwidened.It’s not fair, I thought to myself for the millionth time.It’s not fair that my beautiful, perfect child would be diagnosed with diabetes. She’s not even fat!As soon as the thought came, I chastised myself for fat-shaming. I silently recited my mantra:don’t think any thoughts that you wouldn’t say out loud. That way, there could be no way that I would slip up and be canceled. Anyway, it’s a good thing that Noemie is learning to eat every three hours. It’s healthier this way. She’ll set a good example for her peers.

I saw the other moms making their approach, and dread lurched up my throat like bile, so I quickly waved to them and called out, “Sorry, ladies, I’m late for a meeting! Lunch soon? Love you all!”

And now, as I drive away from the twins’ school and enter the 405, I can’t help going over everything that’s happened this morning—all of the tiny details that went wrong. Elea’s acidic remarks, peeling away layer after layer of my defenses. Ben’s unspoken judgment. The way the other school moms approached me, grinning like sharks, their eyes calculating. I can’t help feeling like everyone knows. My dark secret. My hands tighten around the steering wheel. I force myself to release my breath. Take a deep inhale. Exhale.

Just as the tension starts to leave my shoulders, Sabine gurgles. I smile at her through the rearview mirror, and she smiles back. My sweet baby. Then her eyes suddenly focus, and her face turns pink. “Oh no,” I mutter, just as she lets out a massive, wet fart.

I recognize the sound of a diaper blowout when I hear it. “No!” I cry. “Not today, baby.”

But Sabine doesn’t give a shit (or rather, she gives alotof shit) about what day it is. She doesn’t know we’re on our way to meetwith Bodacious Babies, a meeting weeks in the making. It would be Sabine’s first ever official modeling contract. I held off long enough so I wouldn’t be accused of exploiting my newborn, but now she is sturdier, with thigh rolls to die for, and she adores the camera. It would be a crime not to let her shine.

Of course, right now, those luscious thigh rolls are covered in crap. Sabine starts wailing. “I know, baby,” I coo, searching for someplace I can stop at to clean her up. There is nothing. Of course there’s nothing, we’re on the freaking 405. I could take the next exit and pray there’s a Ralphs or something that I could go to, but then we’d be hopelessly late for the meeting. And I pride myself on my professionalism; influencers get enough bad rap as it is, and I’ve set myself aside from all the others by taking my career seriously. Turning up to a meeting like this one this late is unacceptable. I take a deep breath and immediately regret it as the stench of Sabine’s blowout has now filled the car. I look at her crying face in the rearview mirror and say, “I’m sorry, sweetie, but you’re just going to have to endure it for now, okay?”

It doesn’t help. She screams throughout the entirety of the remaining journey. By the time I take the exit for Wilshire, Sabine’s usually cherubic face is covered with snot and tears and sweat, and she’s so tired from wailing that her cries are all gaspy—closer to whimpers than full-on wails. I spot a Natural Foods and swerve into the parking lot. I should’ve stopped off earlier. God, I am the worst mom.

Stop that. She’ll be fine. It’s just a little poop, that’s all.

Except when I finally get to her, it isn’t just a little poop. It’s the mother lode of diaper blowouts. I can’t help gagging when I see the mess. “Oh, sweetie, it’s okay, it’s fine,” I say, more to myself than to Sabine. I lift her from her car seat, but now I have no ideawhat I’m supposed to do. There is just so much. Sabine’s whole bottom half is covered in it. Her car seat is covered in it. For a second, I stand there, arms out, holding my baby, both of us just as stunned as the other. Then, as though being lifted gave her a second wind, she opens her mouth and starts screaming once more. And now, Natural Foods customers are staring at us. As though Natural Foods customers need more reason to be judgy assholes. I snap out of it.One step at a time, I remind myself.This is nothing. I shoulder her diaper bag and hurry her into the supermarket, being careful to still hold her away from me because the last thing I need is for me to get shit all over my outfit right before a meeting. More judgmental stares. A couple of them seem to recognize me. I ignore them all, locate the bathroom, and rush in.

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