…too bad it seems to be on my head half the time. :/

So this past weekend, I attended Lori Foster’s Readers and Authors Get-Together and had a great time at this relaxed and informal event. Around 45 authors were in attendance and almost 3000 USD was raised for our local battered womens’ shelter. I got to meet and chat with readers and other authors, some of whom I met for the first time, and others who I’ve known for years through various channels. As soon as I found out I could attend, I began anticipating it, because I knew I’d be in the company of readers and writers…and I could have some adult conversation that didn’t center around my kids.

I don’t think anyone can adequately imagine the helpless horror I felt when I finally arrived at the event on Saturday…and not five minutes into my first conversation the talk turned to…my kids.

Back in the BC era (before children), I used to chuckle at my coworkers who came in with kid stories. Oh, sure, they were entertaining, because what’s not funny about flushing a peanut butter sandwich down a toilet, or finding silly putty stuffed in the toes of your dress shoes? Especially as these things weren’t currently happening to me. But I always wondered why people talked so much about their kids.

The joke is on me now…because now I know. I sort of sat back in fascinated horror and watched myself tell people kid stories all day long. Instead of discussing the trends in publishing, or the exciting life I lead as a writer of sexy love stories (shyeeah), or even the e-published versus print published perpetual debate, I’m talking about finding Legos in my underwear drawer and my constant battle to keep the sand in the sandbox on the patio versus having it tracked into my house. And on the drive home, I worry that I no longer have much in common with people who cannot recite the release date of the latest talking animals movie off the tops of their heads or have intimate knowledge of the entire cast of Spongebob. So if you’re reading this blog and I bored you with kid stories, please accept my heartfelt apologies. If you were by some miracle enchanted by my children, then bless your heart, I’m glad I’m not completely socially inept.