Shhhhhh. The baby is sleeping. Finally. The husband had the audacity to leave our home office and get whisked away to the Big Apple on a business trip for three whole days taking my dutiful put-baby-down-for-nap  and wake-baby-up-from-nap partner, leaving me the bad guy.

This guy also took my daily dose of grown up as it’s just me and baby in the house…alone. Albeit, I am glad to take a break from our most frequent conversation topic:

Josh: Hey, his diaper needs to be changed.

…

Josh: Then I want him back.

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So my attempt at getting back into my pre-pregnancy routine has failed miserably. Dinners now consist of drive by stops at the supermarket because I want something quick and easy (read: tomato soup with a sprinkling of cheddar cheese) or take out (read: Chic Fil’ A cookies and cream milkshakes are my mother blood). The days of even a quick salad doused in some vinegar (ette) are over as that braise was apparently a one time deal. Fortunately this bothers me more than my other anxious half as he is drowning his worries in a jar of nutella — and we’re talking the super plus size jar, not the normal 9-ouncer. (ahem, thanks mom!)

We’ve been taking a birthing class, and yes I know I sound totally hippy right now, but according to my hospital’s stats, 98% of us knocked up groaning women call for the anesthesiologist and their 8-inch needle before too long. And, well, not to gross you out, as I’m told it is a fact of life (but one even I must draw the line at when we are here to talk about food (yet here I go because pregnancy makes/forces you to become comfortable talking about all sorts of things, which yes I will draw the line at naming)) but we watched a birthing video and I think we are both still trying to recover from what exactly happens. Down there. To me (he just gets to sit back and watch and say haha woman, that’s what you get for nagging me about starting a family.)

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Huevos Racheros. I imagine this would be my daily breakfast had I actually been able to cruise along the coast of Mexico last week instead of diverting my plans due to lame rules. Or it could be my new sudden obsession in this whole wave of pregnancy cravings. First breakfast, then vinegar and now anything that can be wrapped up in a soft tortilla shell and have cheese and sour cream smothered on top.

Regrettably, I don’t have much authentic mexican food to compare this with as this is my take on the whole runny fried egg on an open faced salsa topped taco (which is an ingenious magical idea, I tell you) but if I had actually been interested in eating food while honeymooning in Riviera Maya almost four years ago instead of napping on beach beds and getting sun blisters from being too busy to remember to put on sunscreen (since there are entirely more important things to be doing), I think it would be something like this.

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I was supposed to be telling you of our spur of the moment cruise, the last hurrah before we take care of a little munchkin that will steal our hearts and energy, the final vacation before vacation is just life in a different location. Instead I come back with a tale of vacation havoc — words that should never be used together unless your vacation turns out befuddled, agonizing and making you wish you were in pre-term labor rather than battling the ruthless. We were going to be walking deck planks, using the excuse of my oversized load to steal some pool-side lounge chairs (which I hear go really fast), have an actual room with a view over Central Park (even if it is a miniaturized version on a boat) and get some sun to aid in my “glow” as I need to squeeze myself into a bridesmaids dress in less than a month, sigh, yes I know.

Instead I must tell you that I have no idea what cruising life is like, but after this experience I don’t know if I can say I am a fan — which is what you all really want to know isn’t it? You probably are thinking I will bemoan the buffet food, or perhaps you are wondering how I managed to stay upright and not hurt myself or the baby while being six months pregnant with unsteady sea legs and an already pitiful lack of coordination and balance. But that’s the thing. We flew all the way down to Miami, took a taxi to Ft. Lauderdale and proceeded to check in at the desk when this kind woman came up and started making conversation. Ahem, or so I thought. Her kind enquires about my mid-section soon became a nightmare as you can apparently be “too pregnant” at six months. Six months! We are still three whole months away from squirting this little person out, but say you are anywhere past 24 weeks and you are banned like the plague from the boat. And so we were left on the dock as our last vacation as young, childless, free adults sailed away without us (and our complete awesomeness plus half).

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