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Home. The convention was good... for the first couple of days. Then we got hit by the horrible vile flu that swept through the Concourse. I missed dinner with my editor for the second year in a row -- last year it was because of a delayed flight, and this year, it's because I was puking. (We did have breakfast together this morning, and by "breakfast," I mean I managed to eat a cinnamon roll and drink a little juice.) Officially the worst Wiscon ever.

Amazingly, the baby hasn't come down with it, but both Heather and I are pretty much the walking dead at this point.

I'll try to write about the non-vomitous parts of the con later this week -- at the very least I should sing the praises of our baby, who traveled amazingly well, slept through the night every night, and was basically a whirlwind of adorable charm who dazzled everyone who chanced to look upon him.

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