When I was pregnant with my son, my husband and I did what every other internet-obsessed, soon-to-be parents do: booked the most romantic babymoon we could dream up. We spent our days strolling cobblestone streets, picking out overpriced onesies in quaint little shops, and snuggling at night, whispering about our future with a tiny human after making (kinda uncomfortable in my state?) love. Très romantique.
It was exactly what we needed before our son ripped open my vagina with his giant head and forever changed our lives.
So, naturally, as we geared up for the birth of our second child, the idea of another babymoon came up. On one hand, it’s The Thing To Do when you’re pregnant. But on the other hand… we’re tired. Kids are expensive. And since we live near our parents, it’s not like we haven’t had weekends away in the past couple of years. I promise we’re still in love, but the novelty of the concept was just kinda… not there.
So, when my husband expressed his desire to visit family in Boston before the baby’s arrival, I figured this was the perfect time for me to pull a lil tit-for-tat and plan a babymoon of my own making — one that was less about quiet strolls and soft whispers and more about rotting away in a robe while scrolling the feeds.
I texted my long-distance best friend on a whim, and the next thing we (and our credit cards) knew, we were booking a long, baby-and-boy-free weekend at Nobu Los Cabos. After packing way too many maternity swimsuits and my blood-pressure cuff (IYKYK), we were ready for a trip full of indulgence, laziness, and absolutely zero romantic expectations. When I say I hacked the babymoon, fam, I mean it. Here’s why babymoons are better with besties.
I Saved Money
This wasn’t even the main reason I opted for a pre-baby trip with my best friend, but honestly, it’s actually kind of genius. Let’s do the math. If my husband and I — who share finances— went on a trip together, we’d pay for two of everything. But with a friend? We each paid our own way, which basically made the whole experience half-price. And since I wasn’t drinking (while my husband would’ve been pounding back the margs), the whole thing was practically free. It was clearly a fiscally responsible decision that shows just how much I value the welfare of my family. End scene.
I Didn’t Have to Have Sex
I realize I sound like a crusty old hag with cobwebs in her vag. And while, yes, that’s how I feel right now, it obviously wasn’t always like that because, hi, I’m pregnant. Don’t get me wrong, sex is great, and sex with my husband is the best (hear that, honey?), but in my third trimester, I’ve become one of those people who would rather drag my bloated body over hot coals than partake in penetration. Pregnancy sex just isn’t for me right now, and nothing says, “We’re going to have sex,” like jetting off on a romantic trip with your baby daddy.
Instead, my best friend and I got to stuff our faces at every resort restaurant, order extra dessert from room service, and get away with not shaving our legs the entire time. THAT’S the kind of relaxation I’m looking for before my vagina goes into battle again, y’all.
I Was Less Annoyed Overall???
Again, I couldn’t be more excited to expand my family with my husband, but there’s just something about his existence in late pregnancy that makes me want to pull a Gone Girl. It’s not my fault (thanks, hormones), and luckily, he understands, but if I had to be at a tropical resort with him while he got to drink, soak in a hot tub, and eat sushi, I might actually commit a felony.
My best friend, on the other hand? I’m here for it because there’s nothing better than being obnoxiously loud at the pool and gossiping about people we didn’t like in high school while she’s blacked out on tequila. We got to end the night laughing in our own queen-sized beds, with her doing her best Edward Cullen impression instead of some bourbon-scented man (my husband) giving me the “Shouldn’t we be taking our clothes off right about now?” look. No cuddling. No coitus. Just me, having my space while my feet swelled to the size of flippers.
…But I Could Still Be As Annoying As I Wanted
On the flip side, spending 45 minutes trying to get a picture of me + my bump by the pool (none of which were post-worthy, but whatever) was just, like, an accepted part of our trip. As my true ride-or-die, she took the pictures of me gazing off into the sunset and sipping my virgin piña colada without complaint or ignoring my very specific aesthetic. I know marriage vows talk about how you’ll accept each other for who you are and blah blah blah, but as C*rrie Bradshaw once said, we all have secret single behavior, and when you’re with your platonic other half, you truly get to let that shit fly. We’re used to bickering, disagreeing, and being brutally honest with each other — and in doing so, we’re not jeopardizing the foundation of our relationship; we’re just, like, being best friends.
No One Rushed Me At The Spa
There are very few indulgences pregnant people get to enjoy. Honestly, it’s pretty much just like food and bodily pampering. I chose Nobu because everyone I talked to said the spa was top-notch (which it was, btw), and I intended to spend as much time as humanly possible getting rubbed with lotions and sipping infused water in a tranquil yet bougie setting, TYVM.
When my husband and I go to resort spas, he’s under the impression that once the treatment (singular!) is over, it’s time to go. There’s no lounging with a book by the secluded pool or unwinding in the relaxation room and gazing off into the distance, pretending you’re Nicole Kidman in literally any film. For him, it’s like, “Cool, we did that; let’s go on a hike or do some sort of physical activity.” With a best friend, though, robe time — especially spa robe time — is sacred. You stretch that shit out as long as possible. Should we add on a facial after the massages? Absolutely. Should we eat all the healthy little snacks to pretend we’re not about to go down a ½ lb burger and fries? You know it. Should we guess the life story of everyone who shuffles past us in their slippery spa shoes? Without question.
I didn’t have to compromise on my coveted spa time, and considering I’m the one cooking the baby, this was the true cincher in choosing my friend over my husband as my babymoon partner.
I Got to Feel Like Myself For a Fucking Second
Spa treatments and celibacy aside, there’s something about escaping with your best friend that reminds you of who you were before Mom became your primary title. On this trip, I got to feel like myself again — no partner-pleasing, no future planning, no endless list of responsibilities. Just me, my best friend, and a schedule that involved absolutely no one else’s needs but our own.
For a few much-needed days, I wasn’t a wife, a mom, or a pregnant person — I was just myself, living it up with my favorite person. In the end, this babymoon wasn’t just about a getaway; it was a reminder that friendship, laughter, and unapologetic indulgence can be just as restorative as romance (if not more). Aww, right?
My husband’s the best, but for this trip? My best friend was exactly who I needed by my side. Because sometimes, the best kind of love on a babymoon is the platonic kind — the kind that lets you be annoying, stretch out spa time, and fully embrace a carefree, just-for-you vibe before life changes all over again. The fact that we got to do it in a place that looked like the set of White Lotus was just an added bonus (one that my straight male partner would never understand).
