The only time Rebecca steps away from baby jail is when she wheels the hot pink Maclaren stroller to Starbucks at the sleepy hour of 10:45 a.m. She times it perfectly so that A) the baby is sleeping B) the morning rush has subsided with the early lunch crowd still at their desks and C) Victor, her contact at YouTube, can fill her in on the latest. Then, with Vanilla Spice Latte with a generous topping of whip cream hitting her system, she fires off her daily tweets at triple speed. She types with one thumb, her other hand occupied with either her drink or the stroller. Sometimes, Rebecca crosses paths with the nice couple who favor matching t-shirts. Today’s read, “I’m your worst nightmare”. They giggle while swapping coffees. And while he never adds sugar to his simple tall coffee, he hovers down hers flavored with not one but two Sugars in the Raw. Today’s tweet was all about the feeling she woke up with today, a sinking awareness that the urgency that once fueled her ambition could easily evaporate. The question of whether or not she is a product of her times, the influence of which she had always denied, might in fact be larger than she cares to admit. Is it becoming a mother, Rebecca wonders as she drains her now tepid tea. The fact that seeing “Pulp Fiction” last night seemed dated? The show up at MOMA that struck her as second hand? That life seems so much bigger and smaller than staying on top of dirty diapers? Or is it simply she hasn’t slept through the night since her little bundle of joy arrived last September and that she’ll never fit into that sweet pink number again.