This one comes at you straight from the beaches of Puerto Vallarta, where Wifey and I are enjoying what is likely to be our last quiet vacation for quite some time. We’re taking advantage of what has commonly come to be called a “Babymoon:” our final opportunity to make use of the swim-up bar at the adult pool (at least without paying for a babysitter or traveling with our parents).
Apparently this kind of trip is a relatively new phenomenon. Although I’m not first of their offspring to take one – in fact I’m the third – my parents seem to get a real kick out of the concept. “Can you believe the kids all go on ‘Babymoons’ these days? When we were younger all we got was one honeymoon…”
Go ahead, call us spoiled; we can take it. This vacation makes all the sense in the world: once Little Dude takes his first breath nothing will ever be quite the same, let alone travel. So allow me my Dos Equis, and Wifey the little umbrellas in her tropical juice. She’s earned it – and I’m happy to carry her bags.
Judging by our observations on the voyage here, future journeys are likely to take on a vastly different tone – before we’ve even arrived at our destination. Here are a few examples:
Hey, at least once we do make it to the gate we’ll be able to board early. That’s gotta count for something.
Among the various lifestyle changes that we’ve made so far during this pregnancy, one has had an especially tangible impact on Wifey’s balance, both literal and figurative (and therefore also my own).
She started doing yoga again.
The “again” is important. To hear her tell it, she had a pretty serious yoga habit before we started dating. By direct association of course that means that it’s my own fault she’s barely gone back since; but what I hadn’t quite realized is that she isn’t just, you know, “into yoga.” She’s a fucking yoga junky, and this baby pushed her right back off the wagon.
She’s like that former smoker who had one drink too many at just one social occasion and the next thing you know he’s back to a pack-a-day habit. She can’t go without her fix. She’s even started proselytizing to other pregnant women around town – or their poor husbands. Last week the guy at the bank who handles my business checking account happened to inform us that his wife is also pregnant, and he immediately received an unsolicited yet flawlessly delivered sales pitch for “Hot Mama” prenatal yoga classes at Nature’s Whisper School of Yoga.
Now I’m doing their marketing too, I can’t help myself. Click the link. It’s an awesome studio.
Joking aside, it’s a marvelous thing to watch her walk in the door when she gets home from yoga every day. She radiates positive energy, confident in her strength and in her ability to bear this baby. She is woman, hear her roar!
Watch out, fellas – yoga doesn’t leave track marks. You never know what you’re getting yourself into.
My wife is carrying a soccer player around. (Or maybe a dancer – we’re open minded.)
At least that’s what I hope – this kid’s beating the shit out of Mommy. He better calm down when he’s born, or else get rich and famous off those kickers.
The funny thing is, we both love it. For a while there, despite the visible bump, it was difficult for me (as it is for most men) to really wrap my head around reality of a human being growing inside my wife. There was a certain disconnect – she felt her body immediately begin to change rapidly, while I spent several months stuck on “Holy shit, is this for real???”
But starting with that first kick – to my face, actually, about a month ago – any doubt went out the window. Something is going on in there, and at this point, it better be a baby. The alternatives would be seriously weird.
These days, little dude hardly ever stops dancing. As soon as Wifey sits still he perks up; she places my hand on the right spot and I can feel him. Is that an arm? A leg? His tush? I don’t even care – all that matters is that he’s my baby, and he’s real.