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Rebecca

Everyone is lying to you about something.

I look around at all the insanely accomplished women here at the MomBomb conference, all of them posing for photos, schmoozing with brands, closing deals, and streaming every second of it onto their platforms, and I think of all the things I know they’re lying about.

The rumor mill is constantly churning in our world, but we also usually keep one another’s secrets from the public because we all have something to hide.

I spy Marybeth Kelsey. She’s got more than three million followers on her account about finding true love when you least expect it after divorce.

Except she’s currently separated from her second husband in real life and continuing to post about their happy union because it will destroy their brand if she tells anyone they are splitting before their big five-year vow renewal at Disney in the fall.

They’ve got it all planned for Cinderella’s castle and no one ever says no to that sweet, sweet Disney sponsorship money.

Once it starts flowing it will keep going for years unless you take a shit on Space Mountain.

Marybeth is chatting with Amanda Meery, who has just under a million followers watching her homesteading in the Alaskan wilderness with her three kids.

Except all three of those kids are actually away in boarding school because teenagers have no interest in living without electricity, running water, or Netflix, and she shoots all their content in a single week when they return in the summer.

The rest of the time she boats around the Aleutian Islands with her girlfriend, Carol.

Dixie Simmons got famous for making breast-milk ice cream and yogurt on her channels and she rails on about how preservatives and additives in grocery store foods cause cancer and ADHD in kids, but I’ve seen her crush the processed food aisles of Costco while sucking down a full-sugar bottle of Coke.

During Hurricane Eliza last year, Jenn Thayer became Internet-famous for sticking out the storm with her three kids and geriatric dachshund in Florida, but I know for a fact she was streaming from in front of a green screen in the Chicago suburbs.

Erin Sayers claims she lost a hundred and thirty pounds by eating nothing but meat for a year and doing a hardcore weights routine, but we all know she’s on Ozempic.

Veronica Smith sells training courses for how to optimize your life as a stay-at-home mom of four boys using vaguely militant tactics and self-improvement tips from Tony Robbins and Dale Carnegie.

Her husband is a professional baseball player, a massive douchebag, and my husband’s best friend.

Veronica loves waxing poetic about raising “masculine men” who aren’t “snowflakes,” as she details her morning routine of ice bathing and weight training to be a #MentallyStrongMama.

I could write a book about everything Veronica is lying about. And I’m pretty sure she slept with my husband.

But who am I to throw stones? I’m lying about practically everything.

The MomBomb conference is sorority rush on steroids meets Harvard Business School. You have never met a more ambitious crowd of women who are so meticulous about their beachy waves and personal branding. It feels like you’re being judged and scrutinized every single moment. Mostly because you are.

I’ve been coming to MomBomb for ten years, since before it was such a massive thing, since way before the big sponsors signed on, back when it was held at a Marriott in Orlando and we all paid for our own rooms because we were hungry for community, friendship, and swag.

Back in those days we were still paid in free products so we were drowning in BPA-free Tupperware, linen swaddles, and vitamin D supplements.

That was before we knew what we were worth.

Before we all started to fight for it. These days MomBomb is at an insane resort right in the middle of the desert with a view of the mountains.

Each suite has its own infinity pool and there’s a meditation labyrinth designed by James Turrell and constructed out of oyster shells.

The architecture is sleek and modern, using stone and wood that seem to whisper, Nature, but make it fancy .

It’s like your Instagram feed came to life—if your feed was filled with million-dollar views and impeccable design, which many of ours are at this point.

I don’t take too many pictures or videos when I attend things like this, which could be a missed opportunity for content, but it’s really about self-preservation.

Anything I do on my own without the children always leads to the inevitable comments about “who is watching your kids?,” which is difficult to answer honestly most of the time.

It’s inevitable that someone will post and tag me while I’m here, but I try to avoid it by saying no to selfies.

When people ask me that question about who is taking care of my kids on a daily basis, any time I do anything without a child strapped to me, I would love to say, They are with their other parent .

But that’s also not the truth. Even when Gray is home he isn’t doing much parenting, especially lately.

He wanted these kids, so many of them. He wanted even more.

He loves the idea of many, many children in the house, but the reality of them always seems unpleasant to him.

Besides, now that I know the truth about what he’s done, having more children will be impossible.

Plus, I could never pin childcare on Gray, even if he were up for it. In our world the husband doesn’t do domestic labor.

The fact that I can never reveal that I have any sort of help at the ranch is insane but necessary.

Parenting this many kids with a full-time job is no joke.

I think parenting two kids would be no joke.

It is work, but no one wants to hear that.

They see me as a “good” mother because they see me “do it on my own.”

So my kids are happily with one of their caregivers right now and they will be for a few days while I handle Gray.

MomBomb kicks off in earnest tomorrow, but everyone arrived yesterday to “pre-conference” and there’s a little bit of a moms-gone-wild vibe since the event is strictly no kids allowed (unless you’re breastfeeding).

When I arrive it’s already cocktail time even though it’s barely past noon.

This year’s conference has a tequila sponsor, several wine sponsors, and a hard seltzer sponsor.

Also plenty of gummies, CBD, THC—you name it, you can ingest it.

When I look at the bar menu I notice there is also a collagen creamer sponsor. This means that many of the cocktails are an eggy white. Anything to keep it tight.

But there’s also a variety of nonalcoholic beverage sponsors for the more traditional and conservative crowd.

I would be considered one of them. But that’s not why I don’t drink much anymore.

Gray and his family abstain for religious reasons (and to save face in the community).

Gray also can’t handle his liquor. I learned that lesson the hard way.

I stopped drinking because I hate feeling out of control.

If there was one reason I married Gray in the first place it was because he gave me a sense of safety and stability that had been lacking in every other part of my life.

It’s the best thing about him and most of it had to do with his money.

Money can equal stability, and it definitely gives you power.

I know that now and I will never forget it.

The theme of this year’s conference is Motherhood, Enhanced .

There are coasters and T-shirts and stickers with the tagline on every available surface.

I’m not totally sure what it means. What exactly enhances motherhood?

Are the products made by the sponsors enhancing motherhood?

Are we enhancing motherhood? The single biggest complaint from my followers is that I make motherhood look too simple and easy and frictionless.

But they don’t want friction. They don’t follow me for stress or for the lows of parenting and wifedom, or womanhood.

They want the pretty shit and it’s why they keep coming back.

I am, in many ways, Motherhood, Enhanced .

I cut through the crowd and say hello to the familiar faces.

I can feel eyes on me from all around the pool.

It might be what celebrities feel like when they mistakenly decide to go to a Starbucks or the farmers market like a normal person.

I have no idea. But I know these eyes are watching me and judging me. All of this is a performance.

I look around for her, for Lizzie, but I don’t see anyone who looks like her.

It’s embarrassing to admit that I’ve been following her life and career as closely as I have.

I know she follows me too. It says it right beneath her profile…

Lizzie Matthews Follows You. So her pretending not to know anything about me when I messaged her was funny and it also bummed me out.

But I get it. I’m the reason our friendship, the closest one I’ve ever had, is over.

I’m the one who disappeared, who just left Lizzie hanging with no explanation.

But I could never tell her why. I was so embarrassed and ashamed when it happened, and then the longer I waited the more impossible it seemed to reconnect.

I’ll tell her now. If not tonight then tomorrow.

She deserves an answer and she deserves one in person.

Maybe I’m being too self-absorbed when it comes to Lizzie.

Maybe she really doesn’t know anything about my life or follow my actual feed.

That would be strangely refreshing. Maybe she just followed me as a courtesy when I followed her and she never looks at Instagram anyway.

She probably has other stuff going on that’s more important with the magazine job and the handsome husband who is from London or Wales and looks a little like nineties Hugh Grant with his charming but slightly pervy smiles.

She’s also got two little ones, which is so much work.

For me, the first two were the hardest. Going from one to two nearly broke me, both physically and mentally.

I want to ask Lizzie about it, about how she’s doing, about how she managed the transition from not being a mom to being a mom.

I want to grab her and hug her so hard. But I won’t.

I tell myself to be cool. Stay cool. I need her on board for everything if I am going to pull this off.

I keep scanning the crowd for her wild brown curls, which in her online pictures seem just as unruly today as they were fifteen years ago, but there’s nothing but honey highlights in every direction I look.

I spy @SingleDadDan by the tiki bar surrounded by a scrum of women three deep. He’s doing a card trick, an actual card trick, and the ladies are loving it.

A few years back one of the MomBomb founders thought she was being inclusive by inviting @SingleDadDan to the conference even though it literally says Mom in the title.

I think she regretted it after that first year, when the rumor mill started that he slept with at least three of the #FitnessMoms. Apparently, the next year he moved on to the #OrganizationMoms and then the #WineMoms. There was also talk of an orgy.

The women here are divided into their cliques, or rather their categories—fitness, luxury fashion, vintage fashion, renovation, DIY, Jesus, wine moms, and newly sober moms, who are having a big brand moment right now.

I overhear an overserved #AnxietyMom complaining to an #ADHDMom about how she never knows who her real friends are anymore since she hit a million followers. “Do they love me or do they love my following?” If you have to ask, you know the answer.

I honestly can’t wait to get out of here.

If I don’t see Lizzie soon, I’ll just hang out on my own.

It’s what I’ve been desperate for. Time alone to regroup.

To plan. To go over everything I have to do in the next forty-eight hours.

I want to get to the gym, sit in the sauna, and then go to my room and order room service.

I need to get my nerves settled. I know that after tomorrow everything will change.

Everything will be better. I know it. It has to be.

It can’t get much worse.

Out of necessity I keep my sunglasses on as I circle the pool.

The bruise around my left eye has mostly faded but I’m not taking any chances.

That’s not the story I want to tell. My phone beeps in my bag and I pull it out hoping it’s Lizzie telling me where I can meet her, preferably a quiet corner away from the crowds. But it’s not her.

It’s him and he’s not happy.