I’d like to write about how excited I am to go to New York. I’d like to write about how I know my girls are going to be ok. About how I know I’m going to be ok. And about how I’m ok that I’m ok. But this isn’t that post.
I veer violently and unpredictably between excitement and terror. I count down the days and can’t wait for a break and to be alone. And I choke back tears every time I hold one of my babies. And I think ‘Holy crap! What the hell have I done?!’ far too often.
I find myself soaking in details. Like Riley whispering to me secrets about the NumberJacks while I memorise her curly hair and her bright eyes and her heart chin. And Piper crawling up on to my chest for a bit more of a snooze in the middle of the day. So I’m your basic hot mess.
And when I watch the #blogher12 twitter stream I’m overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people.
It would be easy to forget why I wanted to go in the first place. That the first time I took SLR (the old film kind) photos in Sydney and the place that developed them for me asked me when I got back from New York was the biggest compliment I could have received. For a brief period I was a film critic. Until I worked out that I didn’t really like being a critic, I just liked being a fan. But I was always more of a fan when New York was breathed into the narrative fabric of the story. And if I could get lost in New York in a movie, I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to get spectacularly lost in real life. And that’s a good thing. I love getting lost.
BlogHer is going to be awesome. And although I’ll probably never be able to afford to go again, I’m glad I’m going, at least one time. But it’s not the reason I’m going. And I’ll try to remember that. I’ll try to remember that person who was so sure she was going to move there, before life and motherhood altered that course. But you don’t always get to have your dreams show up in a perfect package. Sometimes they show up in a slightly more complicated one. I’m a mother and I’m a wreck. But I’m still going.