The days are getting shorter, the air is feeling cooler and the holiday hot-spot vacation flyers have started to roll in.
Today, one in particular caught my attention.
Here's the thing. The word babymoon isn't new to me. I first saw it printed in a guilty-pleasure trashy magazine, along with photographs of a bikini-clad celebrity gallivanting in the sand during a pre-labor getaway with her pelvic affiliate and diminutive ankles.
You know what? This whole trend has me feeling completely unconvinced.
I’ll be honest here. When I was pregnant, the furthest thing from my mind was cherishing together time while experiencing a romantic fling on the beach. For one thing, I was far too busy working out the logistics of ejecting a small-but-mighty organism through a part of my body I hadn’t been able to get a clear visual on for months.
Between my ever-expanding feet, my wildly indiscreet chest and my puffy reality-television-star pout, I was more concerned with just trying to appear human while I was in the process of producing one.
Even if I had wanted a babymoon - which I didn’t - I would have been banned at the departing gate because, let’s face it… an exhausted, gassy hippopotamus wearing a catsuit and knitted shoes, tends to draw attention at all-inclusive beachfront resorts. And not in a good way.
See what I mean?
|Don't look directly at it.|
So instead, we stayed home for the duration of my pregnancy and while I persistently weathered the relentless thrusts of hostile baby heels pressed firmly into my ribs, Geoff diligently ran through several worst-case labor scenarios while staring in disbelief at the cartoon-like expansion of the figure waddling before him.
We were a less-than idyllic pair.
Bottom line? Babymoons are best left to those who believe in the concept of push presents. Mind you, I suppose I did fall victim to that trend. After a three day labor peppered with complications, I requested (and received!) a giant bottle of prune juice, which incidentally was worth its weight in diamonds. And beach sand.