Today is our last day of vacation, and I’m holed up in our bedroom while Gus takes a nap (on my lap, as per usual).
Gus did really well with the three-hour drive to the beach, but I suspect that’s in large part a result of Mike’s plan to leave at 5am so he would sleep on the way. My husband is obviously brilliant, as the baby was asleep before we left our neighborhood, and didn’t wake up until we stopped for breakfast at the beach.
Gus has mixed emotions about the beach itself. He loved to watch the waves roll in and out, but wasn’t super pumped about them crashing on him (and by him, I mean baby waves touching his waist). We had little baby tide pools a few days (thanks to Hurricane Bertha, I think?) and he would sit with us to splash and play in the sand, usually happily.
He gladly rinsed off in the pool with us every day after the beach, and he got to take his first bath in the big tub, which he loved more than anything else. He would crawl in circles after his bath toys, and now I understand why they sell those faucet cover thingies (while he made it out unscathed there were several close calls).
He loved to explore our condo, which was conveniently full of baby-friendly furniture, and was particularly fond of standing and staring through the giant sliding glass door (and then smashing his face against it).
Gus played with his cousins (as much as a nine month old can play with 2–5 year olds), but we never stayed on the beach for more than three hours — breastfeeding and sandy boobs proved uncomfortable for all of us, and Gus was too distracted to nap anywhere beside our condo. But most days I got the baby fed, napped, and still got to swim in the ocean and pool, and even squeezed in some (very serious and cutthroat) Pictionary, so I consider our first vacation with a baby a success.
And now, despite how much I love the sea and sand, I’m super excited to get back home to my fancy mattress, comfortable nursing chair, and our puppies.