We just got back from a weeklong vacation in the Dominican Republic. In a way, I’m not a big fan of vacations because I can take them or leave them. Fun is not something I can plan. A wide variety of elements have to come together in order for me to have fun, and that can happen at home or elsewhere, and it’s a completely spontaneous process.
Regardless, this trip was good in that I didn’t have to clean, cook, think, or do laundry for a week. All I had to do was take care of Baby and enjoy the company of Husband. Done. I organized the trip, despite my money panic attacks, because I wanted to have a bonding time that was just the three of us before I return to work in a week. (Eeek!)
There’s something slightly sci-fi about the all-inclusive package in third world country thing. Resorts are generally very expensive, elaborate worlds, with built-in restaurants, pool, and beach access, so that you never have to leave the campus. The food ranges from good to strange, in a way that makes me feel like the human race was captured by aliens and they work hard to approximate human food to keep their pets (us) happy. For example, butter cookies are slightly rubbery in texture and a strange color (which did not stop me from consuming them).
You also consume an ungodly amount of calories in all-inclusive packages. I totally enjoyed Second Breakfast, Elevensies, and Onesies. Husband felt stuffed, whereas I felt pretty darn normal (breastfeeding gives me the appetite of a teenage boy).
Beyond that, the trip gave me some time to ponder this whole thing of parenthood (not that I ever not ponder it, this whole surreal reality). It has brought a great deal of happiness and singing to us, but has also opened up an entirely new world of anxiety and guilt for me. For instance, I have guilt attacks over the fact that I have no idea what amuses a two-month-old, that I have not provided a fancy, fun mobile, that I took him to the Dominican Republic ON A PLANE. I’m worried he’ll be lonely, that he’ll be kidnapped, that I will be destroyed if he throws a tantrum in the future that includes the words “I hate you” (just saw that on the street today. I’m pretty sure that would make my heart collapse.)
Now that my maternity leave is almost over, I’m also sure I did the whole thing wrong. I wasted time that could have been used to, I don’t know, finish my novel, establish a sleep routine for the baby, regain some semblance of ab muscles, save the world, but none of those things have happened.