Four the fourth consecutive year, we filled our car with books and other book-like items and headed west to Bethesda to hang out our shingle at the Small Press Expo, a gathering of people who enjoy illustrated books, either making them or reading them—or both.

The event is in a hotel ballroom with a really garish carpet and extraordinary chandeliers. I might picture it as the site for an opulent wedding or a jeweler’s convention, but it seems a bit dissonant as the backdrop for a gathering of independent comic artists, many of whom (present company excluded) might qualify as “hip,” “edgy,” or “alternative.” Nevertheless, we and our compatriots arrived in droves on Saturday morning to set up our tables and hope for the best.

This is our 12th such show. By now our roles are well-defined. My job is to carry boxes to our table and complain about how my back hurts. Robbi’s job is to set up our display.

Kato’s job was to hunker in the corner looking menacing so that no one would steal our stuff.

I am happy to report that no one stole our stuff.

At this point, we’ve published 31 books in addition to our various t-shirts and baby garb, and since the table is but two feet deep and six feet wide, there simply isn’t enough real estate to display them all. Each year, the problem gets more acute: what books to show and how to display them?

Our approach is anything but scientific. We put out the books with the catchiest titles and try to sort of wiggle them with our fingers as people walk by, hoping to catch the eye.

New to the booth this year was our Maker’s Tile Game display, which Robbi engineered by attaching magnets to the backs of the tiles and sticking them on an angled metal surface so that they could be easily arranged and rearranged and rearranged again.

The photo below was taken moments before the doors were opened, moments before a moving wall of enthusiasm poured into the hall and filled every inch of available walking space.

Then the appointed hour arrived, and the room suddenly ceased to be empty.

Suddenly, the place was overrun by book-seeking people. They opened their wallets with crazed looks in their eyes and demanded to purchase. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say.

Ultimately, I decided to 1) graciously accept their money and 2) say “Thank you.”

A big part of my day was spent explaining the Makers Tile Game, which elicited words like, “whoah!,” “no way!,” and “oh no she didn’t.” Robbi and I both lost our voices explaining the back story to all who stopped to have a look, and I found myself wishing that I had a copy of Robbi’s how-to video on hand.

The rest of my day was devoted to explaining the whereabouts of my baby. Those who had seen him sitting atop my shoulders earlier in the day were puzzled when they came by the booth again and saw that he seemed to be missing.

“Where is that baby of yours?” they asked with some degree of concern.

“He’s over there,” I told them, encouraging them to take a closer look.

As was often the case with Alden when she was still small and immobile enough to be invited to these shows, Kato spent a good part of his day in a cardboard box in the corner.

Those of you who have never spent an afternoon this way have no idea how enjoyable it can be, and ultimately, how relaxing and restful.

When awake, Kato ingratiated himself to the masses, taking credit for our work and signing autographs for $5.

At first we objected, but he cut us in on the action, so we decided to roll with it. Later in the afternoon, he hooked up with one of his people and made some plans to hit Dupont Circle later that night.

We stayed with Kato’s good friend Baby Anna and her parents.

Already a flirt, Kato kept cracking jokes that Anna refused to see the humor in.

“She’s laughing inside,” he kept insisting, thought the rest of us suspected that actually she wasn’t.

All in all, this year’s SPX was a good show. Many people came. It’s comforting to know that the small press world seems to be continuing on in spite of the economic woes.

And in spite of my hair. I had no idea until this moment that it was quite so unappealing on Sunday. Perhaps I’m more edgy and alternative than I realized.