I leave Sunday for two and a half weeks to promote Rockabye
up the western coast. And I'm going by myself. At first, I had this
fantasy of bringing Archer, of having a sort of caravan situation, but
it wasn't realistic and if I've learned anything these past few
signings, a book signing is no place for an almost-three year old. No
place for my almost-three-year old.
Archer
at my Book Soup reading in Los Angeles. He insisted on reading an
excerpt himself. Cute but the kid's heavy and underneath those lights,
man, was I ever sweating like a wrestler.
So
I'm packing my stuff, even though I don't have a suitcase. My suitcases
are all down south in San Diego in my parent's garage which is where I
still store my stuff because I'm, like, eighteen still. Trapped in the
pregnant body of a twenty-six year old. It feels weird packing for
myself. I'm so used to packing for all of us. For Archer. His duffel
bag remains empty. He's staying here with Hal, who still hasn't found a
job since the writer's strike happened back in December. It's a
struggle right now for all of us but the silver-lining is that Hal gets
to be with his son. They get to have boy time, which is a lucky thing.
We're all grateful for that. Hopeful that the job market might smile
down upon us but grateful for the time it has allowed for my boys to
bond like homies.
The last time I went to San
Francisco I was pregnant with Archer so it feels kind of neat to
return, pregnant with #2. It feels kind of like I'm going on an
adventure not alone. And when Babe II is born I can tell him/her about
his/her pre-life adventure up the coast with me in my pocket. From San
Francisco to Vancouver and all the places in between and how I rubbed
my belly for good luck.
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