Five months into motherhood, I was exhausted. After four days at a plush Mexican beach resort, I felt reborn. Boarding the flight to Cabo with my husband, Alejandro, my arms felt unnervingly light. It was our first trip without Ona, our five-month-old daughter.
Still, my heart felt a little hollow as the plane took off and Austin disappeared beneath the clouds. Would I be able to enjoy the next four days on the Baja Peninsula? The sea held my gaze, lulling my frazzled nervous system as did the perfect Mexican margarita, putting Texan versions to shame. Explosions of carmine bougainvillea and slate-green spikes of agave studded the desert landscape. I felt, in a rush, how very tired I was. But here, unlike at home, I could rest.
But as Alejandro and I entered the space, I felt my shoulders tense up. After months of cooing and babbling at a baby, my adult vocabulary felt distinctly lacking, and my wine terms all but forgotten.
Prior to pursuing a career in wine, Rioux trained as a classical pianist and flutist in her native Quebec. There are no rules. Most women endure first-trimester nausea during pregnancy. Mine had lasted all day, every day, for nine months.
I could barely eat, work, or see friends. My only craving was to not be pregnant anymore. I fantasized daily about what I would eat when I finally felt hungry again. If I could, I would time-travel back to that suffering self now and tell her it would all be fine: she would have a beautiful, healthy daughter and would soon be seated at a table overlooking softly lapping pools, savoring a seasonal Tuscan feast prepared by chef Matteo Temperini. From the local king prawns bathed in buffalo mozzarella and freckled with caviar to the giddy hairpin turns of scallion, blueberry, goat cheese, and sea bass in the third course, the meal was exquisite and pleasure-soaked—everything I needed.
