Two Saturdays ago, I went surfing. It was the 2nd time I've gone since being 3 months pregnant, when I had to stop surfing by the doctor's orders. John and Baby Z went to swim lessons, and I had the entire morning, even most of the day, free to myself. I had everything ready for John to feed Baby Z at noon, so I really didn't need to be home until 4pm or so.
I packed up for the beach -- a task that I thought took some thinking before I had the baby, but now I realized was a piece of cake compared to the packing and prep required for going out with a baby. I hopped in our little 2-seater truck (no possible place for a baby seat) and took off with my surfboard hanging out the back and my cares and to-do lists draining out the back of my head.
A leisurely drive later, I was sitting on my board in the water, with the sun on my back, letting the roll of the waves soothe me better than any 60-minute massage. I stayed in for about an hour, taking my time, grabbing waves when I wanted, not stressed about getting "enough" in before I had to leave. I didn't have a time to leave by; I didn't even have a watch. I soaked in the freedom of having so much time to myself, knowing that Baby Z was fine with his Dad, and nobody needed me. I savored the preciousness of the time like a fine piece of Swiss chocolate in my mouth.
In the end, I was only gone about 2 hours, but it felt like a real vacation.
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