Week 24: Babymoon!

As I write this, my hair is sloppy with sweet almond oil from this morning’s massage, and my feet are caked with sand.

It’s day four of my babymoon, and I don’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed. My shoulders are no longer hunched. My spine is loose. I feel the thrum of a kicking baby in my gut.

What is a babymoon? It’s like a honeymoon but with a dumber name. It’s basically the last getaway as a couple before a baby arrives — which sounds slightly ominous but is actually pretty special.

 

For The Husband and me, we’ve never had a vacation like this before. Our actual honeymoon was spent hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, unshowered, our muscles spent and sore. Then we explored the Amazon rainforest, slathered with DEET and stink.

So this babymoon — a road trip to Baja, Mexico — has been more of a traditional romantic getaway than anything we’ve ever had. No plans, no watches. The kind of lazy days where the question of “What should we do today?” is answered with “Let’s get tacos.”

Our time here has been unscheduled but busy. Mornings are for watching whales and waves. We read books and eat bagels on a patio that overlooks a wide swath of sea, and the early mist makes my hair frizzy.

 

Afternoons are spent strolling the beach, finding patterns in the sand, unearthing pretty shells. The sun is hot on my shoulders, but the breeze is cool. We take naps and get tangled in the sheets. In the evenings, we sit on our patio and watch the sun sink into the ocean, our wine glasses filled with Trader Joe’s sparkling pomegranate juice. At last, when the sky goes navy, we sip peppermint tea under the white fairy lights that are woven into the wooden trellis.

 

We brought Lemon along, and her reactions to the beach have been a never-ending source of delight. She enjoys digging in the sand and sniffing out birds. But my favorite thing is how she becomes temporarily paralyzed whenever a cold wave hits her little legs. She is not a water dog, that’s for sure.

 

The other day The Husband and I made an excursion to Ensenada, a city chock full of vice and rowdy cruise ship passengers, but there wasn’t much for us to do. We don’t like to shop. Horseback riding is out. I can’t drink and don’t need any cheap pharmaceuticals. And it’s hard to buy a lap dance when I no longer have a lap.

 

Instead we ate tacos. And then we walked on a beach. On our drive back to the B&B, we stopped at a fruit stand situated on a road shoulder in the canyons. We shared a cup full of fresh-sliced mango sprinkled with chili and lime, while a grubby white dog slept at my feet. Then I bought a coconut and slurped down all the water and meat. It was pretty perfect actually.

 

Here’s the update for the week:

Baby: Depending on the source, he is supposedly as long as an ear of corn, as big as a cantaloupe or the size of a large zucchini. Basically, he’s a whole Ohio produce stand.

 

Food: I’ve probably been eating a little too adventurously. Every time I see my produce chopped with a rusty machete, I cringe and think, “Maybe I should ask for a clean machete.” But I can’t help but eat this way — I have a difficult time going to a boring restaurant when there are so many street vendors cooking up fresh, homemade goodness.

I also have this belief, based in no scientific evidence whatsoever, that chilies kill bad bacteria. So overall I’ve been feeling very confident about my food choices, as long as everything is topped with incredibly spicy salsa.

Body: My poor lower back has started to take notice of the new weight I’m carrying. I feel my spine curving just a little, compensating for the bundle on my hips.

Also this week my breasts started leaking. Not gushing, just a teensy dribble. But it was enough that I looked down and thought, “Huh. So this is why I have these things.” It is SO WEIRD! My body is navigating a brand-new landscape, and it doesn’t even need a map. It just knows what to do.

(By the way, I thought about not divulging this bit of information. But I have a male co-worker who tells everyone about his busted nipple, which is persistently erect, like a Raisinet glued to his chest — I know some of you have seen this — and so I figured all’s fair when it comes to nipple stories.)

Husband: At night when the baby is most active, The Husband likes to place his ear on my belly, resting on the slope of my stomach. This means we have a lot of conversations like this:

HIM: Wow, your stomach is grumbly.

ME: Yes, I know.

HIM: Ha ha. I think you have gas.

ME: Yes, I do. Thanks for pointing that out.

HIM: Whoa. The baby kicked me in the head!

ME: Good.