The posts for the next three days are in arrears and written on airplanes.  I thought those of you who didn't go might like my account.

As I took the little angel to school, I feel my chest tightening.  I learned a long time ago to keep it light when preparing to leave, because if she reads any unhappiness or uncertainty on my face, she deteriorates into a puddle of goo. 

I asked her if she wanted to wave to me through the window as I left.  We waved and blew kisses until I was out of the parking lot. 

I made it to the stoplight at the end of the street before I felt the hot tears and wanted to turn around and say fuck it.

I wanted so bad to go to BlogHer, and I wanted so bad to turn around, pick her up and spend the next three days off work just hanging out with my daughter.  Such is motherhood. Ambivalence becomes your reality, always hissing just below the surface.

When I arrived at the airport (right before boarding) (I forgot my jacket and had to go back, because I know from experience it is fucking cold in San Francisco in July), Average Jane was grinning at me and holding up her copy of Sleep Is for the Weak.  It was smaller than I thought it would be, but very beautiful.  It was the first time I'd seen it in bound form. I didn't want to fawn over it too much.  I figured I could open the 90 pounds of SIFTW in the hotel room and maybe roll around in them naked once I got there.