I went to Tampa this past week. I've been traveling a lot to promote my book. The first time I left the kids to promote the book, last month, my five-year-old said, "No! You can't go! Why do you have to go?"

I said, "Because it's my job. My boss wants me to."

I said this to my son even though I don't actually have a boss. But how can I tell him that I am generating this trip on my own? It's too awful to admit. Still, I am blindsided:

He says, "Doesn't your boss know you love us?"

I tell myself to ignore it. I tell myself there are nine million stories of kids saying the most heart wrenching thing they can say to their mom as she leaves for the office.

I get to the airport and I tell myself everything is fine while I bite all my nails. Then I wait at the gate while I sip diet Coke hoping I didn't eat so many Ho-Hos with the kids that I don't fit into my mommy's-working-now clothes. I am at the wrong gate. I read the seat number instead of the gate. I make the flight with seconds to spare.

I try to calm myself down on the plane. I tell myself that there is no way to support the family as a writer if I'm not going to promote my book. I tell myself my kids are lucky that I'm with them every day from 1pm to 8pm. I tell myself I'm lucky to be making a living as a writer.

I get to Chicago to switch planes. I tell myself that I am in better shape and that I don't have to worry about falling apart on local television because I am not falling apart now. I have a sandwich as a sign of body confidence. Or at least waist confidence; it's all about the button.

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