I stepped down off the panel, my legs shaking so much I had a touch of paulsy. I’m pretty sure the sweat on my face could be seen from the back row. I stayed to answer a few questions and meet a new client so the room was nearly empty. I was actually a little relieved that nobody was left to see me taking deep breaths and stepping carefully. One. Two. Three. Breath.

I push thoughts of over-analyzing the panel out of my head and focused on food. I need it. Bad.

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I’m starting with part IV of a series. Think of it like Star Wars. I’ll be bringing you up to speed in installments. Trust me, it’s better this way.

The story of my daughter’s birth week is one I don’t often try to remember. It’s full of painful memories I feel are best kept locked away. I hate not being able to say her birth was The Moment I loved her. It’s hard to explain the circumstances surrounding that first week that landed me in the ER 12 hours a day, two days in a row, until finally being re-admitted for a three day stay. Perhaps one day I’ll share this story with her so she can avoid the same fate, should it come down to it, but for now, I’ll wait to dispense that information until necessary.

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Remember back when Writing Well Was The Best Revenge? It seems that in the wake of the millions of bloggers coming online in the past five years or so, everyone forgot what we were here for: Writing. Community. Challenge.

I look through my own archives and see when I used to write. People would spur me on, challenge me to be a better communicator, to relate a story in a more dynamic way, to share a piece of our lives in a way that touched you. Then it became about money, stats, popularity. The rise of “monetizing” seemed to crush the spirit of the well-written blog. Bloggers no longer needed to write well because the goal is traffic, which comes via selfish motives seeking deals, a quick feel-good popcorn laugh at an “LOL Cat” or train-wrecks addicted to drama. It’s not as much about writing as it is about selling your site, and yourself.

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It took a long time for my brain to switch to work mode. I was so used to carrying around diapers and fourteen days worth of crackers that I often walked in to client meetings and sighed as I shoved aside four diapers, wipes, three fruit leathers and a nondescript item from what appears to be of a “gummy” family. Or once was.

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It’s a cliche, how history repeats itself.

It’s true, at least in our family, as life motors on I see glimpses of my past squished with my present or projected in my future.

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I have a sound clip from 1997 that features my college roommates and I interviewing each other on “what we wanted to be doing in five years.” I’ve stumbled across that clip a few times since graduation, always giggling to myself and wondering if any of the other girls thought about those goals.

(1997)

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I walked by a glowing extremely pregnant woman. Her friend handed her a bag with some baby booty in it. I chuckled. I couldn’t help myself. I CHUCKLED. They looked up at me and I recovered, smiled, and continued on my way.

In my head I was picturing what the card would say. I chuckled again. It could be any of the following:

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**April, 2013** Hello and welcome! If this is your first time here, I’d love to meet you. I’ve recently written about being diagnosed with Adult ADHD, spent much of last year traveling and went back to work full time as a Program Manager for Media at a large global company. My children are 8 and 6 and I love talking to people with similar stories. Be sure to say hi and pull up a chair. I’ll grab the coffee. (Or tea for my UK friends with milk and sugar.)**

I walked in to the keynote, searching the thousands of faces to find “my people.” I wonder in and out of tables bumping in to elbows and computers. I recognize a few features but I continue to bump, walk, bump, walk looking for my table.

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I’ve mentioned probably half a MILLION times that I’m not comfortable in my boobs. I don’t like my bras, I had them sliced off, I had them mis-interpreted, and still, the World At Large loves bewbs.

Damn you people.

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