There’s a reason, I suppose, why the airport people were looking at me funny when I left New York Saturday afternoon: am pregnant. AM VERY PREGNANT. And women who are well into their 8th month of pregnancy should really, maybe, think twice before taking busy trips to New Jersey (after which I will never be able to think of my nether-regions in quite the same way again, thankyouverymuch) and also to New York City’s karaoke bars. Because that shit will knock you on your ever-expanding ass, I promise you. It was worth it a thousand times over, for sure (better than sticking hair clips onto a disembodied head? Watching MetroDad and Laid Off Dad duet the shit out of Kenny Loggins. And witnessing, first-hand, Lisa Stone’s passion for Salt ‘n’ Pepa, a passion that is very possibly greater than my own. Oh, and pajama-partying with a couple of my very favoritest ladies in the history of the world, ever, in a lovely little flat overlooking Gramercy Park. I could go on, but…)

… I’m exhausted. More exhausted than I’ve ever been, except for maybe that time I was in labour for 34 hours. And fighting off what I’m sure is some exhaustion-induced sick that is going to keep me whiny and bitchy for a few days. (Okay: whiny and bitchier.)

So you’re going to have to wait to hear about Wonderbaby’s attempt to run away from home while I was gone. You’ll also have to wait to experience the full force of my pimping energies for the website-formerly-known-as-MBT, now the new-and-improved, all-Canadian Better Than A Playdate, which launched today, and to feel the snap of my whip directing you to WeCovet (where, today, you can learn about caffeinated lip balm and eco-cookies, both of which you need, like, now.) In the meantime, you can go check that stuff out for yourself, and maybe also pay a visit to CoolMomPicks, just because I said so, and also because they could use the business after throwing all sorts of moneys at that aforementioned karaoke party.

And then, when you’re all done, maybe spare a moment to feel just a teeny weeny bit sorry for my ass-kicked pregnant self. Unless, that is, you’re like my mother, who right now, is somewhere shaking her head and saying, that’s the trade-off, sweetie, for not knowing your limits…