It’s one of my clearest memories.  I’m three years old and I’m on gurney at Children’s Hospital downtown — there are no photographs of this moment, so I know the memory is all mine — so I’m three years old, and the gurney has bars like a crib, to keep me from wiggling out.  The doctors and nurses are all in scrubs, and they’re moving pretty fast.  My Dad is there – he’s moving just as fast – faster maybe, because in my memory it’s almost like he’s floating next to me, smiling his big infectious Larry smile, he’s young – not much older than I am now – so he’s still kinda skinny with his sticky-out-y ears and wild curly hair.  I know I’m on my way into head surgery, but I’m not afraid at all, Dad is smiling and it’s kind of fun feeling the gurney go over those rubber bumps in the floor at this speed.   And then, we’re there -  I don’t remember anything else.  Just my Dad smiling at me as there’s a quick shuffle and the elevator doors are closing with him on the other side of them.

He recently confessed that as soon as they shut he broke down in tears.

Parenthood changes everything.  It’s as if your children are a piece of your soul walking around outside of your body.  Like the good version of horcruxes for the Harry Potter fans.  But they are part of you, I now understand, in a way that doesn’t end even when they start breaking off their souls into wonderful little horcruxes of their own.

My postpartum depression, and ensuing recovery, have been really hard on my Dad.

My heart aches when I look at Delilah and think of the tiny newborn she no longer is.  I can’t fathom what it is to look at a grown adult child and know you can never cradle them in your arms again and protect them from pain.  I know my Dad wishes he could.   I know it’s as hard for him to watch me learn my own life lessons and suffer my own struggles and failures.  But I’m growing up, Dad.  And I want you to know it’s okay. These growing pains feel like they might kill me some days, but they aren’t going to.  I’m OK.

Delilah will be two on Saturday.  At two years postpartum, I certainly count myself as a survivor as postpartum depression, but {at the risk of making myself appear unstable – which I assure you, I’m mostly not} I’d be doing a disservice to the illness if I didn’t admit that I’m not exactly back to my old self again either.

She calls my Dad Poppa.  She’s bossy, and noisy, and loves to dance.  I think seeing that tiny curly blonde child running around is both amazing for my parents, and possibly a difficult reminder of the not so tiny not so blonde anymore child, and the demons she has to fight on her own.  But like the three year old who had to have a portion of her skull removed before it leaked fatal infection into her brain, I’m a trooper, remember Pop?  A few nasty thoughts aren’t going to keep me down.

It‘s kind of like a trunki for grownups.  I mean, even though I have a full set of luggage that Scott and I share for the wedding, there’s something about this case that SCREAMS Business Traveler. Either that or “I implement my odd sense of humor into even my travel gear.” {more accurate.} At any rate, I totally freakin’ want that bad boy girl.

Three conferences and two speaking engagements in the next three months.  Does that sound like something I can handle? I’m definitely going to need to buy something fancy and impulsive to deal with the pressure.  {Does this eyesore that I inexplicably love count as “fancy?}  Too bad my “buying fancy things” budget isn’t exactly at an all time high at the moment. (Thanks quarterlies!  Self employment may be freeing…but it ain’t free.)  But I digress.

I haven’t done a ton of traveling since I had Dee.  Scott and I spent a few nights away from her in January but this summer there are unprecedented plans taking shape that involve me leaving my little beloved.   Something I find so difficult that I’ll literally be spending 30 hours in Michigan next week at the Forward with Ford conference along with 99 other bloggers, and then turning around and coming home in time to kiss m’lady goodnight.   But I’ll get to hear Malcolm Gladwell speak in between, and hopefully play more chicken with uncrashable cars and meet some more fantastic blogging folk.

*Sigh*  When did I become this Mom that travels?  When did I become “blogging folk?” even?  In August, I’ll be spending a record 5 days away from my girl for the BlogHer conference (did I mention I’ll be SPEAKING as a Pathfinder by the way?  What?  Who’s having a panic attack?  Everything is totally fine.)

But this post isn’t about my anxiety over traveling, or public speaking, or this weird world of blogging and how fast it can go from a hobby to a jobby ~ what possessed me to say YES to Detroit (those Ford folks really won me over at Idol) it’s about grown-up travel shit.  (Obviously, per the psychedelic hearts suitcase above ~ but c’mon, no one is running off with that claiming it’s theirs at baggage claim, right?)  Fun times!   I’m a shopaholic! And then also, it serves the double purpose of me talking about how much more complicated the decision to travel becomes once there’s a tenant in your building (I’m talkin’ about having kids, yo.) The worst part is how much I miss Delilah, and how guilty I feel when I forget to miss her.

1.  My Husband and my Mother have to coordinate.  DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER.

2. I have to be super responsible and make sure I have enough prescriptions to get me through the trip…not like Utah, where I left grip marks in a wooden table during an interview (which I never saw, by the way…Deca…Ahem.)

3.  I have to get dressed, and I am NOT good at pre-picking outfits.  Maybe I should get Jessica to come help me pack.  What’s the weather like in Detroit?   I’m all psyched to pack my bathing suits for San Diego (more on how I plan to brave a bathing suit with my postpartum sexiness in another post.)

4.  I have to work from the road, and it’s two days that get blocked out from me being able to do screenwriting stuff.  I hate that.

5.  I will really miss my kid.

6.  Traveling is stressful.

7.  Is THIS the event that I want to put all of this effort into?  What will I get out of it besides feeling fancy and having an all expenses paid trip to….DETROIT.  (Although I have to say, seeing the city that’s working so hard to rebuild is actually pretty intriguing to me.)

And we haven’t even planned a family vacation yet.

I want these guys too.  Keep my clothes all neat and contained instead of how I pack.

But on the flip side, every time I’ve been able to put the social anxiety aside and participate in an offline event, the benefits I’ve reaped have been immeasurable.  So I’m doing it. Mostly because I kind of love those Ford folks – feels like they care about what I have to say.   Maybe it’s an illusion, but I like it.

And I’m looking for advice on a cute laptop bag…preferably messenger style, but roomy enough to be a carry-on.   LIKE THIS ONE. But not $200, because I have a functioning backpack, it just cramps my airport navigation style. (Like, how fast I want to speed between inexplicably slow moving travelers.  DON’T YOU PEOPLE HAVE SOMEWHERE TO BE!?)

Anyway…AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!  Thoughts?

I pace a LOT these days.

I thought that by the time Dee had hit 20 mos, I’d have this whole momming thing in the bag and be moving on to new knotches in my belt. But instead, I still have this strange phantom anxiety and guilt about my life and the way I lead it. WTF is up with that, blog readers? TWENTY MONTHS!? Where’s my routine?! If I’m working, I feel like I’m neglecting my daughter. If I’m playing with my daughter, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop on work. Where’s this so called work/life balance and where do I buy some?

Here’s the thing. As you may know, I have two jobs which I am very passionate about (three if we’re counting motherhood, which is OF COURSE a full time job, but I try not to think of it that way whenever possible.) So most of the time, I’m running on eight kinds of fumes at once to make it all happen in a timely fashion {for the record I do not always succeed at that, trust me.}

I’ve been living the freelance writer’s life for over two years now, and I’m still constantly freaked out that there’s something I should be doing, or someone I should be getting back to. I end up working at midnight because I CAN, and also because it’s hard to resist Delilah when she makes it clear she’s had enough of me working. My Mom, who got us through these past nine months of craziness isn’t going to be able to devote as much of her time to Dee (and send good thoughts out for her overworked kick-ass Grandma shoulder) so I’m rocking full on double duty, trying to time conference calls against snacks, and utilize Scott’s lunch hour for meetings.

It’s hard. There’s no road map for this crazy “make-it-happen-or-else” lifestyle. But it’s ours. And if switching off duty with Scott as I rush out the door to a pitch is how we’re going to make this thing happen, than so be it, right?

But when the ef am I supposed to see my husband? Lately it’s like we’re slapping high fives as we come and go, hustling to make this self-employed life work, hoping for a chance to just cuddle in bed without a smart device present at night.

It’s unprecedented, family life in the digital age. It’s changing what qualifies a closed door, breaking down barriers, and yet – it’s keeping us more connected to people we’ve never met some days the the loved ones in our own home. And that’s a scary thought. For me. Because I can get lost online faster than my husband can get lost under the hood of a car. I’ve got to calm the fuck down, find this elusive balance, and get on with my bad self, because other than all the sedatives and lingering psychiatric visits, I’m mostly kinda finally for once feeling good about the place things are headed. Suggestions welcome.

Also? I heard this song in the car today I and I remembered how much I liked it. Rod Stewart and me share the same go-to coffee shop. But don’t worry Rod…your secret is safe with me.