Your mother and I got out of town last weekend. We chose Berkeley Springs, WV, for a quiet retreat, thinking that a spa weekend would be a nice way to relax and enjoy ourselves before all hell breaks loose you arrive. Back in the 1700’s, this dude named George Washington—you’ll hear all about him in school—stopped by to take a bath, and he was so smitten with the area that he incorporated the town and bought land there.

We picked a quaint little inn online and booked a room, then made spa reservations for Saturday afternoon. We found out that many of the more exotic-sounding spa services aren’t offered to pregnant women, as the mere touch of a hot stone or drop of scented oil will send the expectant mother into immediate labor, so we opted for a massage, facial, and pedicure. I’ve never been to a spa before, or had anyone other than a doctor look at my toenails with more than a cursory glance, so I was a bit nervous about the idea of a professional massage. Well, that, and nuding up in front of someone other than your mother. Unfortunately, they separated the two of us upon entry, and I was handed a locker key and a robe to change into. Alone in the dressing room, I closed my eyes, let the new-agey Muzak put me into a state of peace, dropped my boxers, and put the robe on. Then I slipped into a pair of flip-flops, and headed out into the unknown. I don’t often wear robes in public, so it took a little adjusting and an eyeful of someone else’s privates to realize the robes needed constant attention. I wound up walking around with my hands jammed in the pockets so that I would keep the two folds covering my junk.


I was scheduled for a hot-rock massage first, and the masseuse let me get situated on the table while she waited outside (whew) Nervous, I made conversation as she prepared the rocks and got herself organized. It turned out she grew up in the town next to the one I graduated high school in, so we spent the majority of my massage gabbing away about travel, family, and Southern food. I’d have to rate my first professional massage as comfortable, friendly, and informative, but not as relaxing as it probably should have been.

Tonics and treatments

Next came a facial, which at the outset made me feel like a foolish pantywaist, but turned out to be a very pleasant experience. My masseuse was a younger woman who bundled my face up in a towel, pointed a steam generator at my face, and slapped about fifty coats of lotion on my skin. She also massaged my feet and hands, and then put them in these weird heated bag things which (I guess) ensured I was marinading properly. I hope your bottom is as smooth as my cheeks were on Saturday afternoon, little one. I hope it smells as good too.


Finally, we had a pedicure, and this your mother and I got to enjoy together. I had worried about my feet being nasty all day, but the woman hovering over my toes told me, with wonder and awe in her voice, that I have beautiful feet. Given the fact that I wear glasses, my hair is receding, my nose is bent, and I do not have the rippling muscles of an olympic swimmer, having this one redeeming physical quality is comforting. Even if it is my feet. Hopefully this trait will be passed along to you, little one. After she was done with my nails and a refreshing pumice scrub, I opted for a simple clear polish, figuring it would go with sandals and evening wear equally well.

Later, after relaxing in our room, we wrapped up our evening with dinner at a restaurant downtown, enjoying the cool air, relaxed atmosphere, and our buttery smooth skin.

You will be happy to know your crib is now assembled, and we have organized your room as much as possible. We still face a game of musical chairs with all the furniture in the house before we can really set your room up correctly. I have to finish the front porch first, and then we can move our office downstairs. Then the big futon in your room will move into that room, and we can push your crib to the far wall and have room for the dresser we still haven’t found. See? Isn’t that simple? It’s really kind of fitting, when I think about it, because we didn’t get to sleep in our own bedroom until a year after we moved into this house, and neither will you. Welcome to the family!

Date posted: August 20, 2008 | Filed under finn | 6 Comments »

6 Responses to Dear Cantaloupe.

  1. tbtine says:

    “…we have organized your room as much as possible…”

    Translation: Not organized at all, in any way shape or form.

    Unless you count stuff placed in multiple bags which are then strewn around the floor and boxes stacked inside the crib so that no baby would be able to lay down in it. But yes, the crib is put together and placed in the room where it will eventually go. Everything else (baby clothes, booty care, legal transportation) is doing its own thing elsewhere in the house.

    Nesting? Believe the hype and despair.

    Ready for hot stone massage!

  2. Mrs. Scout says:

    Pantywaist. There’s that lovely word again. I would have thought its proper spelling was “pantywaste.” Huh. I’m learning so many new things from you! That kid is going to have a great vocabulary.

  3. the idiot says:

    I checked, just to be sure:

    The synonyms are great too: milksop, namby-pamby. Milksop doesn’t have the same lovely ring to it though.

  4. tbtine says:

    I still say it’s this version, much more colorful and disgusting:

  5. Mrs. Scout says:

    Tbtine, you’ve obviously been studying up with those urban flashcards. C’mon, fess up.

  6. tbtine says:

    I gots to be keepin’ it real, home slice.