So, you won't be hearing for me for a while. Today is my last day at The Star for a year. I'm baby-bound, and we're talking big, big baby at this point. I have officially run out of clothes that fit me. I'm well past the cute-pregnant stage and deep into the If-You-Don't-Give-Me-A-Seat-on-the-Subway-This-Morning-I'm-Going-to-Blubber stage. D-day is 8 days and counting, setting me neatly in a hospital room around 8 p.m. on March 29. I don't relish the idea of giving birth in the dark, but hey, I'm committed. I may just give birth to the city's first Earth Hour Baby.
For the next year, you can think of me elbow-deep in soiled cloth diapers, perfecting the "shush" and dreaming about drinking VQA wine (what they don't tell you when you first get pregnant, is that you are cut off from booze not just for the nine months while the baby is inside, but for months afterwards, while you are breastfeeding). If you see a woman with circles under her eyes standing transfixed before a table at your local farmers market, come introduce yourself.
Until then, keep binding those eco-feet.
All the best,