Bump, Bike & Baby Read online

  ‘But I can’t leave my bike outside on the street,’ I plead. ‘Someone might run off with it.’

  I try to explain how expensive Bike is; how irreplaceable he has become to my life. I explain there is no car parking close to the building, so I have to bring Bike along when I drop Aran off.

  ‘One of the staff can mind your bike outside while you drop off your son,’ she says, before returning to her paperwork.

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ I say. ‘I can’t be forcing your staff to stand outside in the cold while I settle Aran inside.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Buggies can be left in the corridor. But bikes are definitely not allowed inside. It’s one of our key health and safety policies.’

  I am so incensed by this ridiculous rule that I don’t care if I’m making a scene now.

  ‘I don’t even have a buggy to carry Aran,’ I say. ‘Bike is my baby carrier.’

  Even as I say it, I can see her health and safety radar sound the red alert. I have lately been riding my bike with Aran strapped to my back, a slightly risky mode of transportation.

  I try to reason with the manager, but I get nowhere. I go for my bike ride with a pounding headache. And when I return and collect Aran from the crèche, with Bike briefly relegated to the road outside, I resolve to never bring Aran and Bike back there again.

  By the time I return home to Pete, I have worked myself up into a total rage.

  ‘I just can’t believe it,’ I say, holding Aran a bit too tightly. ‘Why do all the other mothers get to leave their four-wheeled buggies in the corridor while my two-wheeled bike is banned?’

  Pete pulls Aran out of my arms; he must be afraid I might squeeze the life out of our only child. ‘Well, she might have a point,’ he says, playing devil’s advocate. ‘Like what if your bike fell on someone?’

  ‘I only leave it there for two minutes!’ I protest. There is no way that anyone but me is going to win this argument today. ‘Aren’t crèches meant to be there to support parents, to look after their children so they can do other things? And just because my “other thing” is biking, and not study or work or a mummy support group, then it’s strictly not allowed?’

  ‘Look, I’m not trying to fight with you, Moire,’ Pete says. ‘But she was probably just doing her job.’

  I’m just sick of being told what to do and how to parent, of being tortured by Eamonn with ridiculously hard sessions and being forced to sing ridiculous songs in the swimming pool. I can’t take it any more.

  I start to sob uncontrollably.

  ‘Look, I know it’s been a hard couple of months,’ Pete says. He is snuggling up to Aran, trying to make him laugh. I can’t help but be distracted by this playful paternal bonding.

  ‘Why don’t we go away for Christmas?’ Pete says, totally out of the blue. ‘Maybe get out of here for a while?’

  I feel tired by the mere idea of travelling over the festive period. But then again, maybe a change of scenery would do me a bit of good.

  ‘I’ve been offered a six-week contract in Cambodia,’ Pete says, giving this piece of news to Aran rather than directly to me. ‘I was going to turn it down as it would mean being away from home for too long. Why don’t I accept it, and you guys come with me?’

  My mothering instinct knee-jerks in.

  ‘But what will people think? Aran isn’t even five months old.’ I realise he is due his sixteen-week vaccinations soon. He can’t go without them.

  ‘You really care what other people think at this point?’ Pete says, now the adamant one. ‘I certainly don’t. Let’s just go, and escape the lot of them.’

  I think about it for a while, and eventually agree on the condition that Aran’s doctor gives the final go-ahead. Both Pete and I have lived and worked in Cambodia previously, so we know where to go and what to do there. Cambodia is also lovely and warm in December, unlike Ireland’s increasingly dark and dank weather.

  But most importantly of all, childcare possibilities in Cambodia are plentiful, ridiculously cheap, and don’t have any heavy-handed health and safety rules.

  11

  Abroad

  Before escaping to Cambodia for Christmas, Pete and I make a major purchase. Our spending decision is based on the fact that Aran is now almost able to sit up straight on his own. It means that, finally, he is allowed into a running buggy.

  I have been dreaming about running buggies for ages. I already know the exact specs I need. It has to have pneumatic tyres that can negotiate tough, off-road terrain. I want a state-of-the-art, adjustable suspension system to provide Aran with an exceptionally smooth ride. A wrist strap is non-negotiable, so the stroller doesn’t roll away from me while heading down hills. And it needs a fixed front wheel for directional control while running, but one that can also swivel when out and about in the shops.

  The Bob Revolution Stroller meets all my stringent conditions. Only the four hundred pound price tag makes me balk and reconsider its acquisition. Placing this stroller inside our Citroen Xsara doubles the car’s value instantaneously. I ultimately rationalise this expenditure by calculating that the buggy is the equivalent cost of eighty hours of childcare. If I use the buggy for more than eighty hours, I will actually start saving money.

  The Bob buggy proves to be the purchase of the year. It means I can go out for a run with Aran at anytime of the day, regardless of childcare availability. Bringing Aran with me also means I don’t worry that he is causing havoc back at home, something I normally do. And, more often than not, Aran really enjoys coming for the ride. He rarely cries when he is whizzing along in his new seat, and is often fast asleep by the time I pull into our drive.

  Pete and I decide to bring the buggy with us to Cambodia. It turns out to be the only additional piece of child-related baggage that we eventually take with us. We are exceedingly lucky in that we have child-friendly accommodation to stay in for the whole six weeks.

  Two of our friends, Aine and Richie, live in the capital, Phnom Penh. They are going home to Ireland for Christmas, right around the time we arrive. They have a two-bedroom apartment that they have generously allowed us to housesit. They also have a two-year-old son, which means their place is packed with all the necessary equipment for taking care of young Aran.

  It takes about thirty hours’ travel time to get to Cambodia from Ireland. I am dreading the journey before we even leave the house. Normally I struggle with flying, as well as airport transits and jet lag. God only knows how baby Aran is going to cope with his first-ever global voyage.

  We arrive really early at Dublin airport to make sure we get checked in without incident. Aran is already fast asleep in his buggy when we present our tickets and passports at the flight desk.

  ‘Did you book seats with a bassinette?’ the airline lady asks.

  We had heard that babies could reserve their own special flatbed cots for long-distance flights.

  ‘Yes, we did,’ Pete says, before quickly adding, ‘Does the bassinette come with bulkhead seats?’

  ‘Yes it does, sir,’ the lady says, as she prints out our three boarding cards. Pete can barely contain his excitement. Thanks to Aran’s presence, Pete just got extra legroom.

  Pete wheels Aran off to the boarding gates, while I struggle behind them with our trolley. Though we have already checked in our main bags, I still have to go to the oversized luggage counter to hand in my bike bag. Pete thinks bringing Bike along is hassle due to its bulky rectangular size. But we are going away for nearly two months. There is absolutely no way I am abandoning Bike and leaving him at home all alone.

  We settle down at our boarding gate and wait for our flight to be called. Aran is still pretty content, gazing around at all the airport’s various sights and curiosities.

  ‘Can passengers with children please present themselves first for boarding?’

  ‘Yeesssss!’ shouts Pete, jumping for joy straight out of his plastic chair. Finally, after all these years of budget travel, Aran has handed us a priority board
ing pass for free.

  Another couple soon joins us in the bulkhead bassinette seats. They also have a young baby boy, who is a few months older than Aran. Pete tries in vain to get Aran to become best friends with the other child. I sit there, hiding my face in shame. Pete’s attempts at socialising Aran are a little premature for his age, I feel.

  ‘You’ve such a good baby,’ the other mother says to me halfway through our twelve-hour flight. Aran has indeed been good, much better than I had expected. He has cried only a little, and sat quietly most of the time. He has even used his bassinette and taken a nap in it.

  She, on the other hand, is battling with her infant. He wants to crawl. He wants to explore. He wants to get the hell out of the airplane. Though my initial reaction is to gloat over how good Aran is in comparison, I know that Aran is a ticking time bomb. It will not be long before he too will refuse to sit still for a second.

  We arrive at Phnom Penh airport early the next day. The sky is bright blue. The air is warm and sticky. The heat from the sun is intense. It is the total opposite of what we have left behind us back in Ireland.

  Pete and I are jaded from our long, sleepless flights. Aran however is wide awake, thanks to the consistent sleeping strategy he adopted throughout the journey. I am so jealous of how well Aran is adapting to this holiday already.

  Our own tired eyes are soon revived, however, when we climb into a taxi and zoom straight into town. I had forgotten how crazy Phnom Penh is. Motorbikes whiz past on both sides of our vehicle, manically driven by beautiful little ladies with long, black, flowing hair. We pass brightly coloured markets laden with exotic, pungent fruit. We drive past vast Buddhist temples, with saffron-cloaked monks spilling out from their wide ornate gates. And beside the temples, we see crass neon-flashing signs advertising the latest mobile phones. The teeming humanity and its accompanying contradictions shake awake our senses and our minds.

  Aine and Richie’s apartment is perfect for all our needs. There is a kitchen, a large bedroom with en-suite bathroom, and a sitting room with sofas to sprawl on. There are soft play tiles, as well as plenty of books and toys to amuse Aran. Not that Aran’s needs are much these days. All he requires are nappies, a bed, and breast milk.

  One thing I need though is someone to look after Aran. Even though we are on holiday, my training regime continues. I have bike, run, gym, and swim sessions to complete while we are away from home. And with Pete working long hours on his consulting contract, I need some additional childcare help.

  Fortunately Aine and Richie employ a full-time nanny named Sophea, who is happy to work for us while our friends are away. Sophea comes to visit us the day after we arrive. I initially think she must be a mere teenager when I see her petite figure and flawless facial skin. However Aine and Richie have already informed us that Sophea is in her mid-thirties and has a young child of her own. When she enters the apartment, Sophea spots Aran and picks him up without thinking.

  ‘Oh, look at the lovely baby!’ she says, before formal introductions are even made. ‘What is your name? What is your name?’

  I feel I must intervene. ‘His name is Aran. And I’m Moire. And this is Pete.’

  ‘Hello, Aran, hello, Aran,’ she says, crinkling her nose up as she tickles his belly with her long, slender fingers. Aine told me that Sophea is great with children. I see now exactly what she means.

  ‘So Sophea, can you look after Aran for a couple of hours, maybe three days a week?’

  ‘Yes, no problem, no problem,’ she says, still entranced by Aran.

  ‘And can you come early, maybe around 7 am?’

  ‘No problem at all,’ she says. ‘And if you want, I can do laundry. And some cooking and cleaning as well.’

  No way. One-on-one childcare with housekeeping services thrown in? All for less than three US dollars an hour? Is this for real? We agree with Sophea that she can start later in the week, once we’ve properly settled in.

  Once Sophea has gone, Pete suggests we visit his former workplace, a local microfinance bank called AMK. We hitch a ride in a tuk-tuk, a quasi open-air chariot pulled by a motorbike. Aran seems to love this novel taxi ride. He is tucked in close to me, peering out of his wrap at the exotic Asian sights and sounds flying by. Meanwhile, Pete and I hang on for dear life as the tuk-tuk driver speeds down the road, overtaking other vehicles using a range of well-rehearsed illegal moves.

  Pete worked as AMK’s CEO for two years. We got married just before he left the job. Now he is making a grand return to the bank, sporting a brand-new child. The Cambodian staff are thrilled to see that Pete is now a dad.

  ‘Can I hold him? Can I hold him?’ is all I hear around me as soon as we enter the building. Four Cambodian ladies have surrounded me. They want a closer look at Pete’s baby.

  ‘Oh, look at his eyes,’ one says, as she grabs Aran out of my arms. ‘They are so blue.’

  ‘And his blond hair,’ another says, giggling from the novelty. Pete and I are standing there, amazed by their fascination.

  Another Cambodian lady takes Aran and gives him a massive cuddle. ‘My goodness,’ she says. ‘He is so white!’

  Cambodians are blessed with the most beautiful brown skin, dark eyes, and black hair that I have ever seen. But when confronted with a Caucasian blond-haired, blue-eyed baby boy, it seems Cambodians are totally smitten.

  Aran is oblivious to these women swooning all over him. His thoughts are solely focused on the source of his next feed. Suddenly I see him turn his head towards the breasts of one of Pete’s former female colleagues, searching for a suck. The lady shrieks with shock, dropping Aran in the process.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ I say, catching Aran before he hits the ground. The four Cambodian ladies giggle uncontrollably.

  ‘So what is his name?’ one lady asks, once she’s managed to stifle her laughs.

  ‘Aran,’ Pete says.

  ‘A-ran,’ she repeats back, but this time with emphasis on the second syllable. ‘You gave him a Cambodian name?’

  ‘Really?’ Pete says. ‘No way!’

  Pete and I had struggled to find a suitable name for our baby. We first of all wanted a name that showed he has Irish roots. But we also wanted one that could be easily pronounced and spelled in case we moved abroad again. It meant we had to rule out popular boys names such as Darragh, Eoghan, Gearoid, and Ruairi. In short, we couldn’t use ninety-nine per cent of traditional Irish names. Eventually we selected Aran for its short and simple spelling, and its link to Ireland’s Aran Islands. Pete is now delighted to claim that it’s also a Cambodian name.

  Pete continues to proudly parade Aran around his former office. I hear coos of admiration emanating from every office and glass cubicle. Aran soon tires of all this adulation, and cries to be rescued by his mummy. But if Aran thinks all this attention will stop once he leaves AMK, he will be sadly disappointed.

  The next morning, my training timetable instructs me to go for a run. It is still cool enough to exercise outside first thing in the morning, so I leave just before sunrise at 6 am. Pete is still asleep, so I slip out of the apartment, taking Aran with me in his Bob buggy. We jog together down the wide boulevards of the old colonial part of town. The pavements are cracked and uneven around here, so we opt to run on the road that is still car-less at the crack of dawn.

  I run past Independence Monument, towards the Mekong River with its sweeping, wide waters dotted with boats and barges. Then I turn towards Diamond Island, where I intend to do some laps.

  Diamond Island is an enigma within Phnom Penh. It is piece of reclaimed land where Asian capitalism has been let loose. A network of speed-bumped concrete streets covers the island, and these are lined with casinos, fast-food joints, and gigantic wedding halls. At 6 am, these fine establishments are yet to open, meaning the streets are empty and quiet enough for a baby-laden buggy and mother to run around. The traffic lights flash green, then red, with only Aran and I present to heed their commands. Only the occasional construction worker ap
pears from around random corners. I see them congregating in an area crammed with fake Parisian architecture, where they are currently building high-end apartments for the emerging Cambodian elite.

  By 7 am, I leave deserted Diamond Island and make my way back to the mainland. It takes great skill to manoeuvre Aran and his buggy back to our apartment, dodging the swelling rush-hour traffic along the way. We arrive back, both a bit sweaty from the rising heat, but happy to have made it home without incident.

  The following morning, Sophea arrives at the apartment good and early so I can go for a bike ride. Eamonn has given me a ten-kilometre time trial to do today. I am a little apprehensive, as I know how much time trials hurt. I am also not sure how my body will cope with the heat under such pressure. But these issues should be the least of my concerns. Something much more deadly awaits me.

  Phnom Penh is already swarming with motorbikes and cars when I wheel Bike out on to the street. I opt to cycle the least busy road out of Phnom Penh, towards the Vietnamese border. But even this tranquil road is hectic first thing in the morning. I put my foot down regardless and start the clock. But as soon as I accelerate, I come close to hitting a tuk-tuk. I then slam on my brakes as a lorry turns right in front of my wheel. Young school children run into my path, waving and shouting at me. I slow down to make sure I don’t run over any of them.

  It goes from bad to worse. Chickens run the gauntlet, while lazy dogs won’t budge from my lane. The odd buffalo and donkey also wander over and try to impede my way. In the end, I have to abandon my time trail. I tell Eamonn the reasons for my slow time, despite how far-fetched they all seem.

  I’m so depressed by my morning session that I decide to unwind with a massage. I bring Aran along with me rather than go alone. Even though Sophea is great with Aran, and I’m sure she’d appreciate the cash, I still feel guilty about leaving Aran for so long, and for taking Sophea away from her own child just so she can look after mine.