Before I became a mother, I was, as my Sonoma County aunt is fond of saying, “a lover of the grape.” I liked my wine. So much so, in fact, that when I got pregnant, I continued to hold stemware at parties, feigning sips, because I knew that if I were to abstain among anyone who had seen the old, half-a-bottle-a-night me in action, the jig would immediately be up.
Read the whole story at The New York Observer
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