The Mom Vlogger
By Alexandra M. Matthews
Becky wants to cancel her vlog channel. She decides this in her mini-van, as she waits for her ten-year-old’s somatic dance class to end. To build up his knee strength after his hockey injury, the physical therapist suggested he try something that would keep him active while slowing him down.
This morning, Jessa Newton left a comment on the “Backyard Barbeque Grocery Haul.” What happened to you? she wrote. Followers barely noticed.
Becky thanked the woman who commented on the “Beach Day with the Kids” vlog, calling her an attention-seeking moron. She laughed at the man who wrote her a private message, warning that her daughter will get her period by second grade because Becky gives her milk full of hormones. Becky jokes to her wife that she’s become a leader in the cult of the everyday. Some people are bound to resent her.
She did not laugh at Jessa’s comment. She and Jessa were theater kids back in high school. Jessa knows that junior year, the local newspaper called Becky “hypnotic on stage” and “destined for fame.” But that summer, on a group trip to top theater programs around the country, Becky blew every audition. Until that point, what had driven Becky back season after season were not the roles, or the cast, or the praise. It was those quiet moments between lines, when she stood poised in costume and makeup, present and still on stage. Those were the moments she craved.
Her channel gave Becky the chance to be in front of an audience again, even if it meant filming about back-to-school must-haves and pantry staples. Yet she hadn’t realized how lonely she’d feel, on stage by herself. Maybe, she thinks, that’s what Jessa sees when Becky holds up a jar of local barbeque sauce in front of the camera, blocking her face to bring the label into focus. Maybe Jessa sees a person who still hides behind her props.
The dashboard camera is set up, ready to capture Becky, sitting right of center in the driver’s seat. Her followers will want one final act of self-care. They swoon when she splices in B-roll footage of herself wiping sunglasses with a lens cloth or vacuuming crumbs off the van floor.
She presses record, then dips her pinky into a pot of rosebud lip balm and applies it in the vanity mirror. She concentrates on the sweet floral scent, on the coldness of the jelly, how it soothes her flaking skin. She takes her time. She slows her movements.
THE END