There were babies everywhere. Crawlers and toddlers, newborns and dumplings, wide-eyed watchers and non-stop babblers. The mamas chased them down, let them roam free and scooped them up for kisses. Most of us didn't know each other. Our kids provided a natural way to magically turn strangers into compadres. We were all in this Mommy boat together. It was quite a fancy treat to realize how very many of us there are in the world.

Over two days, the Mama Gathering took over a bland hotel overlooking LAX. We made it into a community. There were tattooed mamas and great big mamas, foxy mamas and hippy mamas, activist mamas and working-within-the-system mamas. It was a big party with a purpose, an alternative parenting conference. It was designed to be a place where "no one will tell your kid he's wearing girl's shoes."

But what it was mostly, was a whole lot of fun.

We stayed up too late talking about our own mamas. We admired the cuteness of the babies everywhere. No one even blinked when a kid had a melt-down on the elevator. We smiled in recognition when some mama started The Count. ("Persephone Hermione Magillicuddy! Come here right now! One! Two!" At which point little Persephone would come a' running, recognizing that the power of The Count lies in never letting a counting mama get to the number three.)

My fellow mama and I decided to leave our own not-so-little-anymore bundles of joy at home. That was the best way to catch our breath, and -let's face it- give ourselves an overdue dose of freedom. (Naturally we spent much of the conference second-guessing that decision. The kids who came along seemed to be having such a blast. But there's no denying we didn’t have to do The Count, even once.)

Kids or no kids, there was something for everyone. While some attended panels on fighting racism, others learned how to do a mean strip tease. The highlight for me was falling in love with my new favorite writer, Ayun Halliday. She led a panel on autobiographical writing that had me scribbling hard-to-read notes. ("How kids love such specific tiny crap." "Make trauma complex." "Temper your victim with moments of levity.") Plus she wore a fabulous dress festooned with fish. I love a good fish dress.

The panels were great. I learned exactly how a vibrator works; was told to beware of tokenism by a Guerilla Girl wearing a gorilla mask; and applauded my friend's new enthusiasm for stripping for her partner. But it was outside the formal workshops where real connection happened. A knock on our hotel room door after midnight led to a late-night rap session with three total strangers who were looking for someone else. We older mamas counseled the young mamas on the importance of loving what you do. They tried not to roll their eyes at our maternal guidance.

At the opening night potluck, the kids ran wild, shrieking with joy and fury. There was a hint of anarchy in the air with so many of us gathered in one spot. And of course there was so much food it was downright silly. You've got to admit that when we get together, we women know how to put on a spread. From roasted corn to enormous fruit tarts, heaping bowls of salad and stacks of home-baked brownies, there was food enough for an army.

Which, come to think of it, wasn't far from what we were. An army of mamas (and the occasional enlightened dad), gathered to fight for what's important and let go of what isn't. Of course, our battles happen in between wiping up baby spit and marveling at tiny feet so new they've never walked. But at least we know we're in this together, which keeps us going on the days that feel like we're alone.