In my twenties, I dated.
First dates. Blind dates. Bad dates. What was I thinking dates. I really hope he calls again dates. I really hope he doesn’t call again dates. Oh my god he’s so cute but so dumb dates. He’s really smart but there’s no chemistry dates. Did he really just throw his appetizer on the floor (who does that?) dates.
And sometimes I wondered – in the roller coaster of dating and boyfriends, would I find the one? But I should have had more faith. Because the right guy showed up at exactly the right time. And then he dumped me.
But then I found Rick.
Kidding. It was Rick. He was the right guy!
In my thirties, I got married and gave birth to children.
First one. Then two. Then a lot of waiting, praying and disappointment.
I worried that I’d never be able to have my big family. And I worried about my girls. Would they be safe? Would they be healthy? Did they eat enough vegetables? Was it okay if they didn’t? Were their car seats installed correctly? Did they know how to swim well enough? Did they eat too much sugar? Did I look at my Blackberry too much when I was with them? Would the coyotes carry them away?
I should have had more faith. Because my older girls are safe, healthy and amazing. And we were blessed with Chase and Harlowe. I have four beautiful, incredible children.
So in my forties, I vowed to have more faith.
It’s exhausting to think that somehow I control destiny. I don’t.
So that’s how I decided to go to Mom 2.0, a blogging conference.
I’m going because it’s supposed to be an incredible conference. And because it’s in New Orleans, the place I learned to kiss cute boys for Mardi Gras beads, do goldfish shots and where a first date once threw his appetizers on the floor. I think I also earned a bachelor’s degree there.
I’m going because I want to drag Marinka, Wendi, Amy and Pauline to my sorority house and make them sing Pi Phi songs on the porch. And because I must have beignets at Cafe Du Monde. And because I think it would be good for me to get away. Just for a few days. On my own.
And of course, I booked the whole trip and started to panic a bit.
Then forgot about it for awhile.
But now it’s looming.
Like next week.
And I’m panicked again. What if my plane has a hole? What if it doesn’t and I really need fresh air? What if my husband and all my children melt down while I’m gone. What if Harlowe gets sick again, won’t eat and I’m not there to breastfeed her? What if my breasts leak all over my beignets? What if Chase cries for me and I’m a thousand miles away? What if the other bloggers refuse to learn the Pi Phi songs?
I’m trying to have faith.
I’m trying to envision charming St. Charles Avenue. The hand grenades at Tropical Isle. The crawfish etouffee. The drunk tourists yelling “Show me your tits!!” to every person who passes by. And hopefully, somehow, I’ll get myself there.