Two days to go. I have my professional suit, my semi-casual pants and top, and my children’s floaties ready for the trip. I don’t think my husband understood how this conference would dominate my time. He volunteered to ‘keep’ the kids, entertain them in Dallas, and even mentioned shopping…never mention shopping to a 7 year old Diva. Her eyes glaze over at the thought of a new mall to explore. My son, he wants to look at clothes, but mostly goes to check out the women.
Listening to their in-depth conversation last night, I was educated about women in Big D.

“I might marry one of those girls in Dallas,” my son says to no one.
“Well, you know all the women in Dallas wear swimsuits,” my daughter counters.
“So?”
“They all have tans and won’t want to marry you if you can’t wear a swimsuit, too.” She studies his pale complexion for a moment. “You need some sun, too.”

I don’t know where she developed this hypothesis about Dallas women, and don’t care. My son doesn’t seem fazed by her in the slightest. He just wants to marry someone that can cook macaroni and likes SpongeBob.
So while I am schmoozing my agent and possible editors for A MONTH FULL OF SUNDAYS, my son will be making eyes at swimsuited women, my daughter will be trying on her 15th pair of shoes, and my husband…well, he will vow a blood oath never to take the kids on a trip without my close assistance.