Babymoon

one last trip before motherhood begins

Wisteria growing near Lake Como.

Friends! Quickly checking in from my maternity hiatus. Thankfully my pregnant brain is no longer a silent, wordless vortex, but it will likely be a while before I can return to a regular posting schedule.

Still, I wanted to pop into your inbox because I’ve missed you, and because Nick and I just got back from a lovely babymoon. We spent most of it in Rome and Milan, and let me tell ya—if you, like me, are about to pop out a tiny, screaming, constantly self-soiling human and would like to celebrate and/or mourn the demise of your selfish, irresponsible life, I cannot recommend Italy highly enough. For two reasons:

1. Italians are extremely nice to pregnant ladies, and you deserve to soak it up one last time before someone objectively cuter than you emerges from your own body to steal all your attention. Italy’s birth rate is so low that the very idea of human reproduction is somewhat of a novelty there, so being visibly pregnant made me special. Random panhandlers congratulated me. Three teenagers squeezed their skinny butts onto a two-person bench so I could have a seat on a crowded train. At a restaurant near the Spanish Steps, our server went out of his way to pour my water first while he locked eyes with Nick and said, “I’m sorry, but she is IMPORTANT.” Docents at museums offered me their chairs and whispered that I could use the service elevators if I wanted. I usually said no because I have pride issues and wanted to get my steps in, but damned if it didn’t feel good to be asked.

2. When you are the hungriest you have ever been, there is no country on earth more mouthwatering than the birthplace of pasta. (And prosciutto, and granita, and cappuccino, and ricotta…I could go on.) Despite my love of food, I’m usually a fairly light eater. But not once on this trip did I utter an oh, I couldn’t possibly have another! For once in my life, I was a bottomless pit, and I took advantage. I probably ate my body weight in pizza. I cleaned full plates of carbonara for lunch. I had gelato every day. I even ordered dessert for breakfast! So what if the barista looked at me askance as he served me cannoli at 8:30 in the morning? I was in Italy, for crying out loud, and I’d have been a fool not to milk my pregnancy appetite for all it was worth. Though I probably should have learned how to say “I’m eating for two” in Italian prior to ordering. (It’s mangio per due, for the record.)

But Sam, you’re probably thinking, you literally just went to Italy a year ago and wouldn’t shut about it. Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of adventurer? The type of person who likes to check out new places?

And you have a valid point. The thing is, when Nick and I planned this babymoon, we had no idea how well I would handle travel in my third trimester. I currently look like I am smuggling a honey-baked ham under my shirt, and I’ve sprouted varicose veins that pinch something awful if I sit for too long (sub-optimal when you’re flying coach). So we wanted to go somewhere familiar. Somewhere we wouldn’t feel obligated to push ourselves to see every last attraction, and where we could just slow down and enjoy at whatever pace seemed right.

Rome was the obvious answer. We’re happy to merely exist in Rome, with its ancient cobblestones and churches filled with Renaissance masterpieces; it’s one of those cities where we could do next to nothing without ever getting bored. To keep the itinerary spicy, we added a few days in Milan, which we’d never visited prior, and we took a day trip to Lake Como from there.

The gardens at Villa Farnesina in Rome.

The trip wasn’t perfect. There were some gray skies and drizzles, we didn’t do much that had any particular “wow” factor, and I packed TERRIBLY (I forgot all my pajamas and underwear and had to run to the nearest H&M). But it was wonderful. And not only because everyone was exceptionally kind and all the food exceptionally delicious—it was slow and comfortable and without any particular schedule to adhere to. We luxuriated in long walks. We puttered around museums for hours. We visited Nick’s favorite bar in the world (where they made me a very tasty mocktail).

I love traveling with my husband more than anything, and it broke my heart a little that this babymoon was the last time it would be just the two of us, roaming however we pleased. It might be many years before we can take these sorts of meandering trips again. Before I can pass out on Nick’s shoulder on a quiet plane. Before we can spend evenings reading in bed at the hotel, or chat to each other as we flit in and out of a tiny bathroom and get ready for a day of exploring.

I will miss this. I will miss it so much. Our baby will require a nap schedule, kid-friendly restaurants, and a stroller to be checked at the gate. Small humans only have so much patience for art museums and leisurely lunches. I hope someday, when Nick and I have many more gray hairs than we do now and our baby bird has left the nest, we can reclaim our moments of free-wheeling travel. I’ll welcome that phase of life when it comes.

In the intervening time, things will be different. But I have faith that they will be wonderfully different.

I remember, when I was very young, getting jittery on the first morning of every trip. The prospect of discovery and newness stirred me to the point that the air itself felt electric. Now, after many years of devouring as many places as I can, that spark has grown faint, and the world has started to feel small to me. I’ve often caught myself staring at the most incredible sights on earth and thinking this can’t possibly be all there is. I’m sure other globetrotters know what I’m talking about: it’s that tug at your heartstrings that tells you there should be “more,” but you don’t know where or how to find it.

I believe this baby will lead me into the “more.”

They say that parenthood is like your heart existing outside your body. I’ve always understood this to mean that loving someone so fiercely makes you vulnerable; you can’t fully protect your children from the world, and that leaves you more exposed to its hurts and ills than you’ve ever been before.

Now I think the expression is true in another sense. From the moment my child is born, part of my heart will live inside them, and they’ll carry it with them as they discover the world.

Through this kid’s eyes, I will get to see everything for the first time again. Their joys will become my joys. They’ll remind me what it means to marvel at something—even the smallest of things. A fuzzy caterpillar. A fast-moving cloud. How a conch shell sounds like the ocean when you hold it to your ear.

There was a time when I was afraid that becoming a mother would shrink my universe to the size of a nursery. I see now that it’s just the opposite. My universe is about to get so much bigger.

Chances of spontaneous weekend getaways will diminish, for now. But that’s a trade I’m happy to make.

See you for our next adventure,
Sam