“I’m done now.”
We stewed in the awkward silence that was mother and son talking about the possibility of sex, that space where responsible parenting dictated I remind him about pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases, even though neither of us wanted to acknowledge the other even knew what sex was. The whole thing was all the more mortifying by virtue of the fact that he’d overheard my conversation with his father. I would make a video about awarding myself the Birds and the Bees Badge, except there was no way I’d embarrass the child any more than I already had.
“I was mainly calling to ask if you’d gotten any interview requests.”
No, you were mainly calling to tell me about the girl and the B plus, and these interview requests were a dandy excuse.
“I got alotof interview requests. Why?”
“On Monday right after I called you, my public-relations professor assigned a project where I had to use both social media and traditional media as promotion tools. I called radio stations and other news outlets, even looked into Instagram influencers. I found a makeover contest and sent in your video as an entry.”
“You did what?” Maybe the interview requests weren’t a dandy excuse. Maybe my son had unwittingly capitalized on a viral tweet and helped shove me into the limelight. At least it explained how all those radio stations had gotten my phone number.
“It’s this company called Busy Mom Cosmetics. I got your video in just on time. Oh, and I made a meme and a couple of GIFs. Some of them really took off.”
I gritted my teeth at the thought of the chicken salad meme that was now being parodied with about a hundred other things that were “ah-mazing.” As for the GIF? I was about two steps away from using it to describe my situation, except that would be rather meta.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘Thank you for getting me lots of exposure’?” His facial expression reminded me of Dylan the four-year-old who’d created an entire crayon mural on the wall in the hall. I’d been torn between complimenting his artistry and wanting to tan his hide for drawing on the wall after I’d specifically asked him not to.
“Oh, Dylan. I guess I should simply say thank you.”
“Two birds with one stone, Mom!” He sagged in relief. “I needed something to do for my project, you need the monetization from your YouTube channel—”
“But I thought you hated that video!”
“It’s growing on me now that I got extra credit for getting ‘chicken salad’ to trend on X.”
“Uh-huh. As long as that’s the only extra credit you’re getting.”
“Mom. Please don’t talk about sex ever again.”
“Fair. You be responsible, and we won’t have to.”
“Mom!”
“Dylan,” I echoed.
“Anyway, soGood Morning Americamight be calling.”
“Dylan Harvey, what have you done?”
That imp, my firstborn—myonlyborn—started making static sounds as if I couldn’tseehim. “Shhh.Sorry, Mom, you’resshhhbreaking up.Ssh.Gotta go!Ssh.Love you!”
And then he hung up on me.
I went over to my YouTube channel and almost fainted from the numbers. Subscribers were up, views were way up. About two and a half million views. Yes, my views were in themillions.
And the comments?
Nope. Not about to read the comments.
But what was I going to do? I couldn’t make another video about how my husband was leaving me. Lord willing, I would never have to go through my husband leaving me ever again.
Okay, fine. The comments.
I told myself I wasn’t looking for another comment from OneBadMother49, but my sigh of relief upon not seeing anything from him—or her?—suggested otherwise. I tried to ignore the nastier comments and focus on the people who took me seriously when I asked what badge I should earn next:
