It’s been quiet on my blog, but my life has been anything but. The last couple of weeks have been full of packing, driving, talking, talking, talking, writing, more writing, more driving, unpacking, re-packing…

Yep. It’s conference season again.

It seems like every July my calendar is jam-packed, and this year’s no exception. Last weekend Jon and I headed to Chicago (with Clara in tow) so I could attend (and speak at) the Writers and Editors One-on-One conference. This was my third time attending the conference, and if you’re anywhere in the Chicago area (or beyond) and a freelance writer, I suggest attending. Besides networking with a lot of other professional writers, the conference gave me the opportunity to sit down and chat with editors from outlets like Parents magazine, Body + Soul, Woman’s Day and Salon.com, as well as hearing in-depth presentations about what they’re looking for from their writers.

I barely had any time to catch my breath after the conference, as I headed back to Chicago yesterday afternoon for the BlogHer conference. I’m writing this from the hotel, while Clara and I take a rest from all the hustle and bustle downstairs. This conference has gotten huge, and it can be really overwhelming navigating it all…and I’m saying this as a third-timer. I can only imagine how newbies feel!

A few years ago for the now-on-hiatus From Diapers to Deadlines, I wrote a post about prepping for and making the most of writer’s and blogger’s conferences. It seemed like an appropriate time to re-post some of the tips, since there are probably plenty of people also hiding in their hotel rooms right now, taking a break and wondering how to manage it all:

*Be considerate of your fellow attendees. If a panel asks for questions from the audience, don’t try to monopolize the microphone. Keep the question or comment short, relevant, to the point, and universal…there isn’t enough time during a panel for you to go into an hour-long reverie about how blogging has changed your life or about how you were personally screwed over by such and such company.

*Dress appropriately for your goals and the way you want to be perceived. At a conference purely for fun? Then who cares what you wear…dress up if you want to, dress down if you’re more comfy that way. It’s all about being confident in whatever you’re wearing.

On the other hand, if you think you’ll be meeting with people who could be important to you professionally, you may want to think a bit more about your image. At conferences, I generally go pulled-together biz casual during the day and a bit dressier during evening social events, because while I don’t need to come off as a fashion maven, I also wanted to overcome any negative “mom-writer” stereotype others might have had in the backs of their minds–stereotypes that may have included rumpled jeans or a stained sweatshirt. (And I pack twice the amount of clothes I actually need, so when Clara pukes on me during a break, I can just change.)

*Relax. If you go to a conference where there will be big-name writers you would like to meet, try not to freak out or develop an inferiority complex. Remember, they’re human too, and they wouldn’t go to the conference unless they were interested in meeting other people like you. Everybody starts somewhere, and even the most seemingly-unapproachable A-listers are likely to be perfectly nice people if you strike up a conversation. As your mother always said, be yourself, and you’ll do fine.

*Wear comfortable shoes. Can I just say I learned this one the hard way? Ouuuuchh….

*Come talk to me! Okay, that’s not necessarily a strategy for conference success, but I’d like it if you did. I’m the one wearing a purple shirt and a beautiful baby girl.

Any other experienced or first-time conference-goers with tips to share? Leave them in the comments!

Today I have an essay on Babble.com about how I don’t plan on footing the bill for my kids’ college. I’d love for you to weigh in!

I was just reading this touching post at Velveteen Mind about hoping for a baby girl, and it reminded me of an essay I wrote years ago while pregnant with baby #4, which was published in the (now-defunct) ePregnancy magazine. Reading it again I am reminded of how intense that desire for a girl was, and how glad I am that, though I would have been totally happy as a mom of five boys, the dream of having a daughter is one I didn’t have to give up after all. (It doesn’t hurt that Clara is one of the sweetest, smiley-est, most dimply-chunky-legged babies I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.)

Here’s the essay, written almost exactly four years ago.

I am sixteen and one-half weeks pregnant with my fourth child, most likely my last. My pregnancy is going smoothly; I feel healthy and I have a baby with a strong heartbeat.

But I can’t relax. You see, I have three boys.

They are smart, funny, energetic, and affectionate little guys, aged one and a half, 5, and 7. They bring joy and depth to my life, and I couldn’t imagine life without either of them. But I was supposed to have girls.

From the time I was a young girl, playing with my Cabbage Patch dolls, I preferred girls to boys. I gestated, birthed, breastfed, and diapered hundreds of imaginary Ashleys, Jennys, and Sarahs.

When I became pregnant with my first child, the idea that it could be a boy never even crossed my mind. I imagined only a curly-headed little replica of myself, spinning around in pink tutus and tiaras.

What I got was an ultrasound picture with a large white circle drawn around some very suspiciously male genitalia, and a single word, all in capitals: BOY. Well, it wasn’t what I expected, but I soon adjusted to the idea of a curly-headed little replica of myself spinning around in a Spiderman costume. Boy names? Easier, but not as fun as girl names. Boy clothes? Not nearly as good a selection as there is for girls. And five months later, my firstborn, whom we named Jacob, was born.

Not so very long after Jake came along, I found out that I was pregnant again. This time, I really tried to have no expectation about gender. I told myself that a boy would be fine, but a girl would bring balance. If I have a girl this time, I reasoned, then my family would be complete and I would be able to retire from parenting at the age of 40. Not that I was expecting, or hoping for, a girl or anything, mind you.

The baby was already there, a boy or girl, just waiting to join our family. Nope. I was just going to accept this baby’s gender, no matter what. And on and on I went.

And at the 20-week mark, I found myself once again staring at a wiggling penis on an ultrasound screen—and once again trying to brush off the pang of disappointment that followed. And when my third ultrasound also showed a boy, I felt the pang again.

When I found out that I was pregnant with my fourth child, I decided not to find out its sex. “Aren’t you dying to know?” people asked. “No,” I told them all smugly, “I want it to be a surprise.” It took me a while to remember that I never did much like surprises.

This baby means the difference between a family of boys—a rough-and-tumble jumble of muddy sneakers, fishing poles, and frogs—or two boys and their little sister, which conjures up images of canopy beds and tap shoes. This baby carries the potential for making me the mother of the bride, or the four-time, happy-and-proud-but-slightly-less-prominent mother of the groom.

Sometimes it occurs to me that most of this baby is already firmly in place: hair color, eye color, complexion, and yes, sex; all these are determined by now. An ultrasound gender diagnosis won’t change the fact that this baby is already a boy or a girl. And the truth is, both possibilities bring a smile to my face. And yet—as long as the possibility of that mother-daughter bond exists, I won’t really be able to let go of the fantasy.

Mothers aren’t supposed to admit that they would like their child to be one sex over the other. As long as the baby is healthy, we are told, it’s selfish to want anything more specific. Of course, I’d like to think I’m not one of the selfish ones. But hoping for one gender or the other is not the same as wishing for a different baby. I wouldn’t trade this baby in for a different one, no matter what the gender. I love the baby I’ve got, but this pregnancy could represent my final chance for a girl. And, selfish or not, if I never have a girl, I’ll miss her presence.

My ultrasound appointment is set for three weeks from today. I know that when I face the ultrasound technician my stomach will be fluttering like crazy with nerves. And if the words I hear are “girl”—then I can let my little-girl fantasies run wild.

And if she says “boy”, I know what I’ll do. I’ll feel a momentary letdown, a pang, and in one long exhale, I’ll let go of the tutus and the fairy princess costumes and the canopy beds and the prom dresses. And as I inhale, I’ll imagine four little boys in a row, getting haircuts, running through my backyard, and tackling me with hugs. I’ll smile and go home dreaming of the family that we will become.

Over at THE HAPPIEST MOM I’ve been writing about the WOHM/WAHM/SAHM “who’s unhappiest” debate, Mother’s Hierarchy of Needs and starving bad feelings…

I’ve been participating in some group discussions at the Gather.com Special Bedtime Moments site (where you can win prizes for participating),

I have an article in American Baby birthday parties on a budget and articles in this month’s print issues of American Baby and Fit Pregnancy.