Psst…

The firefighter and I went on our second honeymoon. It. Was. AWESOME.  We went to the same resort where we had our honeymoon nearly eight years (and three kids) ago. We went through security without a hitch, which is mentionable because normally it is an issue because I had surgery several years ago for a nerve condition and am now sporting some pretty impressive hardware on my spine and hip.  I was prepared for the pat down where they say, “I’m not touching you. I’m using the back of my hand.” This is where I have to fight the urge to say, “I’m not slapping you, I’m using the back of my hand.” But everything was smooth. Travel was great. And we felt the same awe and heard the same hallelujah chorus as we entered the breathtakingly beautiful resort.

I even managed to stuff myself into one of the swimsuits that I wore on our original honeymoon and the firefighter did not try to gouge his eyes out. One of the days we checked out some Mayan ruins. I kept trying to convince the firefighter that we had seen the ruins on our first honeymoon. I told him I remembered seeing ruined stuff everywhere.  The firefighter reminded me that there had been a hurricane the week before we got there and that probably accounted for all the ruined stuff I was remembering.  Between you and me I realized he was right only after we were looking at actual ruins.

They were so cool. Also, so hot.

So when we got back to the resort we went in search of a pool bar. Well, not just any pool bar. THE pool bar. The one where I broke two of my front teeth on the third day of our first honeymoon.  True story, and here it is:

We were sitting on stools in the pool bar. I wasn’t even drinking. (Seriously, I wasn’t a big drinker until we had kids. just kidding. no I’m not. just kidding.) So there I was, sipping my Coca Cola, when along came a bee. I pride myself on having never been stung by a bee.  I believe it is due to my calm, graceful, evasive maneuvers. Apparently my gazelle-like skills are hampered whilst on a stool in a pool bar. I slipped off the back of the stool into the water, then came up quickly, mouth agape in shock, and slammed MOUTH FIRST into the stool in my spastic quest for oxygen.  My new husband was sitting there looking in awe at his graceful new bride. Actually, the man had an eyebrow cocked and loaded with the question of, “Are you ok enough for me to laugh at you?” We started to chuckle for a second until I realized my tongue was sharing residence with some pebbly-like objects, and there was something razor sharp scratching at my tongue and lip.

Oh gosh.

Please.

no…

Welp, I broke (nearly in half) two of my top front teeth.  The rest of the pictures from our honeymoon look hilarious, like this was an arranged marriage, because the firefighter has his arm around me flashing his brilliant smile while I am grimacing in attempt to not show my teeth. . Luckily security was much more lax in those days and we were able to reenter the United States, because with the tan I had and the missing bits of teeth I was indistinguishable from the locals. Seriously, I looked like the daughter of one of the leaders of the drug cartel. But we made it back and I got my teeth fixed early the next morning. Which was a good thing because we had our big reception later that day.

Anyway, this time we returned to American in one piece. Well… The morning of our return home we realized that we forgot to buy souvenirs for ourselves to remember our blissful second honeymoon in paradise. Mexico, in it’s benevolent and oh so gracious spirit could not allow such a travesty. It felt that after all the beauty, leisure and romance it would be too shameful to walk upright and away without something tangible to remind us of our cultural experience. You know, some way of keeping Mexico alive within ourselves. So, about every hour we were hit with another wave, reminding us of our time in Mexico as we dealt with our own personal issues south of the border. Mexico’s giving spirit won. We spent the next two weeks in the bathroom, lamenting that we didn’t buy a sombrero.

Oh, and it turns out we did get a souvenir. We’re pregnant. 🙂

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