The first time Marissa and I took a babymoon–that trip before the sleepless nights began–we were expecting our first child. This time around, with Marissa six-months pregnant with child number two, our toddler was waking up some time between 1:30 AM and dawn. So while the first babymoon demanded luxury and beaches and long journeys to exotic lands, this time we couldn’t fathom driving farther than Connecticut.
Babymooning as Parents
We stayed a night in the sleepy town of Southport because the hotel, the Delamar Southport, had all the things that we desired: a bed and quiet. (While usually an accomplice on our adventures, our daughter spent the night with my parents.) In truth, the hotel had all the accoutrements of a luxury property: fine dining, sumptuous spa, and comfy robes. And these things were great. But I think I would have settled for a nice park bench if I could have grabbed eight-hours of undisturbed shuteye.
Happily, there was little to do in the village. The pharmacy was the sort of small-town chemist that sold wine. Out in front of the corner druggist/liquor store, we were able to scan all of the quaint town.
We continued on our stroll. The homes were gorgeous, with roofs hanging over patios lofted with columns and lawns littered with the sun and colors of autumn. The fire hydrants were painted to look like firemen. And the grassy promenade presented a respite to look out on the few ships docked in the inlet. Then we returned to the hotel for lunch.
I enjoy taking my daughter to restaurants–selfishly, I can rationalize ordering more food and, of course, I just love spending time with her. But it’s rare to go out to eat with her sans game plan. I’ve become so indoctrinated by her toddlerish whims that part of me nearly ordered crayons when I first sat down at Delamar’s Artisan. But I managed to avoid chagrin and instead settled on raw oysters and clams, and the restaurant’s seafood chowder. The soup arrived at the table in separate bowls, one filled with seafood and the other chowder. The waiter then combined the two so I could appreciate the amount and diversity from the sea. Feeling close to eruptive after the main course, I was somehow swayed into ordering the chocolate lava cake.
We retired to our room and this is where the story comes close to boring. We did nothing. We only abandoned the room at 4 o’clock for a couple’s massage, which was both wonderful and dubious, as the masseuses too closely resembled Red and Poussey from Netflix’s prison dramedy, Orange is the New Black. While I enjoyed the pressure and the moments when my masseuse snuck away, returning with hot towels to wrap me in, I did once or twice consider I’d be shanked. No shiv was presented and then I started to wonder if prisons should train masseuses. After all, they’re more about business these days than corrections. Toward the end, I realized that I was missing the point of a couple’s massage, figuring I should probably look over at my wife and smile or something. But every time I looked over, she appeared blissful and oblivious. I’ve decided that massages are way too confusing.
But I digress. After our massages, we returned to the room for more of lovely nothing: to watch a movie, to read, to sleep, and to actually have the time to give some undivided attention to the next baby, which, unable to voice its presence yet, sometimes goes unnoticed to the excitement and chaos and tantrums and joy of having a toddler.