Here’s the thing: I am so exhausted that I can’t even see straight, and also? I can barely even remember most of the past weekend, apart from the memories of having a minor breakdown in Guy Kawasaki’s backyard, sobbing at least two dozen times in two days, and breastfeeding my baby in front of a roomful of people while speaking at my panel on Saturday (the related memory of the moment of realizing, after leaving the stage, that my nursing pads were no longer tucked in their usual place in the gargantuan cups of my hideous nursing bra and so very probably somewhere on the floor of the California East conference room of the Westin St. Francis, that memory? Is also burned into my psyche. Forever. That, and meeting Grover. It was a complicated weekend.) The combination of adrenaline, hormones, emotion and exhaustion fogged my brain. I’m not even one hundred percent certain that I was actually in San Francisco. Maybe it was all a dream. Full of babies and vaginas and Muppets and too many moments where I felt like there was somewhere I was supposed to be and couldn’t quite get there and also my boobs were exposed and I was standing in front of a crowd and my shirt was open. And, also, the two-foot tall men in evening wear. And the unicorns. That had to have been a dream.

Anyway. I’m still just flat-out knocked on my ass by the emotional sucker-punch of a weekend filled with rich love and deep anxiety and messy pain and did I mention the love? There was too much, and not nearly enough, and I am relieved and happy and heartbroken to be home, wishing I was still there and yet so glad to be back here and wanting everything all at once and so, so tired.

Did I mention the little men in tuxedos? No? Well. Like I said, I’m tired.