I woke up Saturday wondering how soon I needed to leave the house to make it to the Raritan Center by 10 am. The 9 am opening lecture not important to me this year; I wasn’t thrilled with the speaker. In previous years, I flew down to Edison not wanting to miss anything, but Saturday I decide to move slow. I discover it’s good mental preparation because I’m 15 minutes away from home when I realize I forgot my email receipt to prove I’ve already paid the conference fee.

Back on the road, behind schedule now. 78 East to 287 South to follow signs beyond the turnpike exit. I’m glad to avoid all parkways and tolls. Saturday traffic light.

In the parking lot, I give away a handful of Abeka readers to a mom with a white Subaru wagon. Like me, she’s left her kids home and she carries a tote bag. I love giving away books, especially books another home school mom passed to me. We walk into the convention hall together, chatty like old friends.

11 am. Workshop on teaching children to serve; taught by a mom of nine children. Lots of tips on chores; admonishment for mom to set good example. I’m disappointed. I know all this already, even if I don’t always consistently walk it.

Lunch. I sit at a round table with two women, both on their cells. I suspect they are checking on any children they left home with a daddy. I tuck my phone into my bag. It’s set to “vibrate” mode. When off the phone, we quickly jump into conversation. The gal across from me is from New York and she’s thinking of putting her only son into Christian school next year, but she’s not sure of the academics. The other mom has two. As babies they were colicky, and now she’s finally enjoying being a mom.

“I always wanted four,” New Yorker mom says as if I might ask her if she plans on more. “But this is what I ended up with.”

I know she’s about to ask me how many I have. I wish she wouldn’t. Sure enough, the question.

“Four.” I tick off the ages. She’s pleased for me, I think. I recall how I’ve looked forward to leaving them with Doc all day so I can enjoy the convention alone. I consider calling home, but don’t.

Next workshop: Debra Bell. It’s my first time to hear Debra speak and she’s funny and encouraging and a storyteller. I’m in love. Too soon she’s done and I go into the main hall to finally look at books and curriculum. I’m itching to touch the books. There is another workshop I’m mildly interested in, but I need a mental recess.

The floor is crowded now with moms, dads, some children, a few strollers. Lots of pull-along carts filled with purchases. A few moms use those carry-on size suitcases with wheels. I don’t like the look of those – it must be a pain to keep zipping and unzipping to add anything. The Rainbow Resource booth is jammed. Every year it’s jammed. I keep to the perimeter, deciding to come back later. I see a mom from the local support group, but don’t say hello, because she’s concentrating on the book in front of her, frowning. A brow furrow of consideration.

Money is tight, Doc told me before I left that morning. I don’t need anything, so it’s fine with me. Last year, I would have insisted on using the credit card.

2:45. I go to the next session with Debra Bell. Before the lecture starts, I meet a mom living in Califon, not too far from me, new to Jersey. A California transplant. I’m relieved when she says she really likes living here.

“We like the different seasons. We don’t have that in California.”

“Wait until the real hot weather comes.” All us veteran NJ moms agree.

“Monday was humid,” she says.

I smile knowingly. August in NJ is coming soon enough.

“Yes, Monday was humid.”

Debra Bell takes the podium, but has trouble with the Power Point. I take my bag of chocolate covered raisins out of my bag, eating slowly like I’m at the movies. The air conditioning is on and I wish I had my denim jacket that I left in the van. I fantasize of having Debra Bell all to myself over coffee. Her home school journey is done, all her kids grown. I’m going on Year 4.

Finally the computer behaves. I eat the entire bag of raisins.

6 pm. Before I leave, I make another pass through the hall, grabbing a few more catalogs. Some of the vendors are packing up. Most have a long drive ahead of them. I stuff the catalogs into my shoulder bag. Later at home, I’ll pour over them looking at all the new titles and wish I had a few thousand dollars to spare for Timberdoodle. When I’m done, the favorites go into a wood box next to my bed. At night on occasion, I’ll flip an odd catalog or two like it’s a fashion magazine.