So, by the time I found out I was pregnant, I was already about two months along. And the not knowing, in many ways, was a blessing. Those were two months I didn't spend worrying about an early miscarriage, and two months where I thought the best thing I could do to deal with this mysterious nausea and fatigue was to simply fight through it. Also, probably not a bad response.
But once the in utero cat was out of the bag, my mind caught up with my body and basically checked out for about five weeks. As experienced by many women, never had I been so tired and nauseous for such a long time. I logged in more couch time in those weeks than in the previous five years combined.
Toward the end of this period, Dave and I decided to err on the side of optimism and plan a trip to Majorca over my birthday - which would land in the middle of the fourth month of my pregnancy. Seemed safe enough. Besides, I was more than ready to wake up from this seemingly unending slumber and get back to things.
By European standards, our four-day stay was laughably short. But for us, it was a perfect getaway. We flew from Amsterdam to Madrid. Madrid to Palma de Majorca. And an hour long drive from Palma to Deija, the small mountainside town where we stayed.
The first night we were there, I had the fantastic pleasure of having a planned video chat with a few girlfriends in Minnesota who had yet to discover I was pregnant. Fabulous sister-in-law Beth (completely in the know, of course) had a few gals over for lunch, under the guise of this being a "birthday lunch by proxy" for me. After twenty minutes of catching up, I dropped the news on them and received in two minutes what seemed like a year's worth of squeals and screams and giggles and tears. It was in a word, unforgettable.
Our first full day, we had perfect....PERFECT...weather. We hiked down to the Mediterranean via this crazy unmarked path. Saw and HEARD (gratuitous capitalization offered for those who know my favorite sheep joke...()You know who you are and you know what I mean...) sheep as they lazily strolled and baa'ed throughout the city. We played tennis. We swam in the pool. And we ended the day with a beautiful dinner (And, by the way, don't ever try to tell a pregnant woman who happens to love meat to NOT eat local Parma or Jabugo ham. Rules are meant to be broken, right? Ask Dave for details.)
Before the torrential downpour of the next day, we squeezed in nine holes of golf (my funny swing is even funnier with a baby belly), more pool time, a stroll through a local art fair. And then the rains came while we were watching a local tuba and trumpet-driven funk band in an outdoor cafe. Back to the hotel for some cartoon-esque attempts at playing outdoor ping pong in sideways-blowing winds, followed shortly by a couple of warm showers and room service.
I guess I would be in fashion to call this our Babymoon. There was no work, just play. And it was divine.
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