Bump, Bike & Baby Read online

  I choose a ninety-minute hand and foot massage at the ridiculously cheap price of ten dollars. I ease into the reclining comfy chair while Aran lounges on my lap. The Cambodian masseur can barely speak English, and I know no Khmer. Normally I feel uneasy in this situation, the westerner lying there receiving such indulgent attention. But somehow, with Aran with me, this unease thaws a little. The lady seems so happy to see this little baby, and vice versa, that the massage seems a little more convivial this time.

  Aran’s appeal just keeps on giving throughout our entire stay. One evening, Pete, Aran and I go for dinner at a high-end restaurant called Metro on the Mekong riverfront. It is well known for its attractive, slim waitresses who wear short, figure-hugging, Robert Palmer style black dresses. They are very cool, calm, and collected when they take your order or serve you. But again, Aran’s presence immediately pierces their tone of professionalism and causes a frenzy in the serving bay.

  ‘Oh, look at the baby!’ one shouts as they all congregate around our table. We know by now just to hand Aran over, and let them ogle him from up close. It keeps the staff happy, Aran likes it, and we get a free babysitting service thrown in.

  ‘Isn’t it great how popular Aran is?’ Pete says.

  ‘Totally,’ I say. ‘It’s amazing how much Cambodians love kids.’

  ‘Does it not make you wonder what it would be like if Aran grew up here in Cambodia?’

  I had a feeling this question would eventually surface during this trip. Pete loves Cambodia, and would move back here in a heartbeat. He just needs to convince me to come along with him.

  ‘I actually like looking after Aran,’ I say, surprised I’m even saying such a thing. ‘If we lived here, we’d be expected to have a nanny, even if I didn’t have a job.’

  ‘I am sure you could choose how many hours the nanny works,’ Pete says.

  I’m not sure that would be the case. Having a full-time nanny is very tempting when you can give them your kid to mind at any time of the day. But it can feel quite intrusive if a nanny is round all of the time, especially when they can watch every detail of your life.

  ‘You know how household staff tidy up all the time,’ I say. ‘They’d end up hiding your stuff.’ We had a part-time maid when we lived in Phnom Penh before, to help us with the cleaning. The maid used to pick Pete’s socks off the floor and put them in the wash unsolicited. It drove Pete demented. He ended up hiding his socks from her so that he could wear them more than once.

  ‘And look at the traffic, Pete. It’s total gridlock some days,’ I say. I know Pete hates traffic jams with a passion. ‘It’s too dangerous to ride my bike, and it’s not going to get any better, what with the rate of construction that’s happening in the city right now.’

  Pete does his customary shrug, dismissing my latest argument. I’ll have to come up with a more persuasive case if I want to avoid moving back to Cambodia.

  ‘And I like living in Ireland,’ I say. ‘I like the mountains there and I like the climate.’ But this isn’t just about me. And I want Pete to realise that. ‘I think Ireland is good for Aran too.’

  ‘There’s no way he’ll be as popular with the ladies at home!’ Pete seems to have fast-forwarded to Aran’s teenage years.

  ‘Seriously, Pete, both our families are in Ireland. Isn’t it important for Aran to know his relatives? Sure look how much my mum adores hanging out with Aran. It’d break her heart if Aran moved away.’

  Pete twists his wine glass. I wonder if he is planning his counterargument.

  ‘Aran,’ he says suddenly. ‘Aran! Where’s Aran?’

  I look around. The waitresses have gone.

  ‘Shit! Where’s Aran?’ I shout, leaping out of my seat. ‘ARAN!’

  I rush into the serving bay, only to find some waitresses inspecting their nails.

  ‘Where’s my baby?’ I say, sweating now from distress. A waitress looks up from her cuticles, and shrugs her shoulders dismissively.

  Oh shit, someone has kidnapped him while Pete and I were busy talking.

  I run out of the restaurant, on to the street, unsure of which direction he could have gone. The road is swarming with tourists, tuk-tuks, and taxis. I can’t see my blond-haired, blue-eyed baby anywhere.

  ‘Aran!’ I scream. ‘ARAN!’ I turn and burst back into the restaurant to see Pete searching behind the bar.

  ‘Pete, I’ve no idea where he’s gone,’ I say. ‘Oh God, what are we going to do?’

  My shouts must have alerted the chefs, as Aran appears within seconds from behind the kitchen doors. He is smiling brightly at the beautiful waitress who’s carrying him, totally oblivious to the drama that has just unfurled.

  ‘We were showing Aran around the place,’ the waitress says.

  I take Aran back into my arms and hug him very tightly. ‘Pete, seriously,’ I say, when I return to the table with our son. ‘I really don’t think I can live here.’

  Regardless of the pros and cons, soon fate dictates where we will live next. Before we even leave Cambodia, Pete is offered an interim CEO job based in Dublin. Though it is only a short-term contract, it is an ideal career move. It seems like I have won the argument, at least for now.

  12

  Change

  With Pete starting work in Dublin, we have to find somewhere nearby to stay. His contract is only for a couple of months, however, way short of the minimum one-year commitment Dublin landlords look for. My close-knit mountain running network fortunately comes to our aid. I ask around, and find a fellow mountain runner who is also looking to rent out her place for a short period of time. Her house is in Greystones, a small coastal town and seaside resort just south of Dublin City.

  Greystones is extremely popular with sports enthusiasts. It is a great base for heading west and straight into the Wicklow Mountains for road biking, hiking, and running. It also has a web of mountain bike trails in the nearby Glen of the Downs and Kindlestown Woods. And for those partial to water sports, the sea is right there, with Greystones having its very own harbour as well as several stunning beaches. Triathletes are often seen practising their strokes at the crack of dawn in this part of the Irish Sea.

  Greystones is not, however, just for outdoor adventurers. It has also a reputation for being yummy mummy central. The village is packed with young, immaculately manicured mothers, with their trendy kids in tow. Greystones caters for them perfectly, with high-end coffee shops, cool vegetarian restaurants, and local designer stores.

  I am an athlete and a mother. I hope I will fit in to this new place.

  We move into my friend’s house in mid-January, in the depths of Irish winter. It is dark, cold, and raining when we drive down from Derry to Greystones. It is a long and stressful four-hour journey. Our hatchback car is weighed down with everything we need for our stay. Aran is squashed in the back, his bulky car seat taking up much-needed space. Tom is curled up under my feet in the front passenger seat. There is barely enough room for him to breathe. Bike drew the short straw and is strapped on to the outside of the car. In doing so, Bike blocks Pete’s view through the rear-view window. I know from Pete’s prolonged silence that this obstruction stresses him out. It is not an ideal start to our stay.

  Pete’s alarm goes off the next morning at 5.30 am.

  ‘Oh God, why so early?’ I say, rolling over in bed and pulling the duvet around me.

  ‘I got to get up and go to work, you know,’ Pete says.

  I hate it when he says things like that, as if I’ve never worked a day in my life, like I don’t know what it’s like to have to get out of bed at a godforsaken hour.

  ‘Turn that thing off before it wakes the baby.’ Aran is six months old now, but still wakes up two or three times a night. At 3 am this morning, Aran decided to stay up for a whole hour. His sleep routine is slowly torturing me to death.

  ‘I need to get the 6.30 am train,’ Pete says, as he slams hard on the mobile screen and silences the annoying, repetitive beep. Greystones is the last stop on
the DART train service that heads north into Dublin city centre. This is the main way commuters from this area get in and out from work.

  ‘But why so early?’ I say.

  ‘Well, I have to walk to the train station first, then get the train, then walk to the office, then start work.’

  ‘But that means you’ll be in the office around 8 am.’ Still sounds very early to me.

  ‘Look, it’s my first day. I need to get my head around things if I’m to hit the ground running. And I can’t do that if I show up late on the first day.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say, conceding. ‘What time will you be home?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pete says, searching for his glasses. He sounds really exacerbated.

  ‘It’s just, what time will you be home for dinner?’

  ‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’ Pete says. He looks quickly at the clock on his mobile screen. ‘Look, I gotta go.’

  Pete gets up and performs his morning ablutions. While Pete is gone, Aran wakes with an abrupt, shrill cry. I pick him out of his cot, pull him out of his grobag, and carry him gently downstairs.

  Pete is in the kitchen making a cup of tea. He doesn’t look too pleased to see us.

  ‘Can I make you some toast or something?’

  ‘No, I don’t have time,’ Pete says, taking great slurps from his mug. ‘I’ll grab something in town.’

  ‘Well, dinner will be ready around 7 pm,’ I say. ‘I presume you’ll be back by then?’

  All I want is an answer; a definite time when he’ll be home. Then I’ll know when I can look forward to having adult company once more.

  ‘Look, I have no idea what time I’ll be home,’ he says. He grabs his bag and coat, and places a hand on the door handle. ‘Sorry. I’ll text you once I know the train times.’

  And with that, he opens the front door and makes a hasty escape.

  Pete only left a moment ago, but already I feel so horribly alone.

  I stare out the window at the pelting rain. This is what I feared from the very start, even before I got pregnant: that I would be left at home all day on my own, stuck minding the baby Pete literally begged for in the first place.

  After wallowing in self-pity for several hours, I tell myself to get a grip. I’m going to go and find some decent childcare in this place. At least then Aran will be surrounded by happy, smiling people who are qualified in childcare; a much better prospect than Aran being stuck at home with me, his depressed, ignorant mother.

  What with Greystones being a family hub, there is a good selection of crèches to choose from. After shopping around, I opt for a place called Puroga on the outskirts of town. It is a brightly coloured, well-lit place with friendly, welcoming staff. I sign Aran up for three mornings a week, for a total of ten hours.

  Within seconds of registering Aran, my foul mood starts to lift. But what makes me happiest is the fact that Bike is welcomed by the crèche. I can park my car outside the building and leave Bike there while I settle Aran in. I can then take Bike straight out of my car and begin my cycle directly from the crèche’s front door. It seems like such a small thing, but it makes a huge difference to me.

  I am ridiculously excited to tell Pete about this progress when he eventually comes home from work. He has already texted me to say he’ll be home for dinner at 7 pm, as I originally proposed. But as soon as he enters the house, I can tell by his demeanour that he is not too happy to be home.

  ‘How was work?’ I say. He drops his laptop bag on the kitchen floor. It lands with a wet, heavy thud. Outside it is dark and raining relentlessly.

  ‘I had to walk home from the train station in this friggin’ storm,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, even though I am not responsible for the current state of the weather. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ I add, playing it safe with my subsequent line of questioning.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Pasta.’

  ‘Oh,’ Pete says. ‘Okay if I get a take-out?’

  I am this close to tipping the saucepan of hot pasta right over his flippin’ head. I’ve been stuck all day at home minding Aran. I spent an hour making the pasta sauce. And I get total crap from my husband when he comes home from work.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Do what you want.’ I turn back to the stove, and stir the sauce, hoping my hot angry tears will fall silently into the pot.

  ‘You forced me to come home early,’ Pete says. ‘And now you’re giving me this attitude.’

  ‘Early?’ I say, pointing the wooden spoon directly at his face. ‘Pete, it’s 7 pm. You’ve been gone for nearly thirteen hours.’

  ‘I have work to do. And if it doesn’t get done, I’ll get behind, and have to spend more time away from home.’

  I stare at him, wondering if I should make some idle threats as well.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Pete says after a moment’s thought. ‘It’s just I’m not sure I can do this.’

  ‘Do what?’ What’s his issue now? Is it work? Or Greystones? Our marriage? Having babies? Or can he just not stand life in general?

  I hate it when Pete has problems. We are a team and I need him, depend on him, to be strong. The suggestion that he is now floundering worries me deeply. I simply don’t have the energy or expertise to take charge and guide both our lives through whatever storm is brewing.

  ‘This job,’ he says, clarifying my query. ‘It’s really a lot of work. And I’m going to have to put in some serious hours.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say, though it isn’t fine at all with me. Maybe he should have considered all this when he accepted the position and when he persuaded me to have a child in the first place.

  ‘And the commute is killing me. It’s a three-hour round trip and there’s standing room only in the train on the way back.’ He has done the commute only once, for the first time today, and already he has written it off completely. His daily commute in Cambodia has obviously spoiled him. In Phnom Penh, his own personal driver would pull up in a tuk-tuk outside our front gate. Pete would then be chauffeured to the office, in less than ten minutes, with a stop at his favourite coffee shop along the way.

  ‘Do you want to move back home then?’ I say. ‘Or do you just want to quit?’

  I really don’t care what we do at this point. I just want a quiet life.

  Pete is silent. He looks over at Aran, who is sleeping soundly in his chair.

  ‘No,’ he says, easing himself into a seat at the dinner table. ‘It’s fine. It’s only for a couple of months, I suppose.’

  I put a plate of pasta in front of him and he sets about devouring it, having forgotten all about his sinister take-away threat.

  Regardless of Pete’s hatred of the commute and his new job, he still gets up at 5.30 am the next morning to do it all over again. I hear him leaving the bedroom as Aran mutters his early morning cry. I pick Aran up out of his cot and bring him into bed with me. A quick breastfeed quietens him instantaneously.

  I lie in bed with baby Aran snuggled up against me, his head resting lightly on my arm. I dare not go downstairs to the kitchen in case Pete bawls us both out of there. I soon hear Pete rummaging in the hallway, and then the front door slamming behind him.

  How exactly did my life come to this? I know I agreed to look after Aran while I’m breastfeeding, and I know Pete has to work so that we have an income. I was also the one who pushed to live back in Ireland rather than Cambodia. But now I’m seething that Pete has all this freedom that has been rudely snatched from me. Or is it my own fault? Did I just give away my freedom all too easily?

  There is one way I can, however, get back a little of my independence. At six months old, it is time for Aran to start eating solid food, and to slowly be weaned off breast milk. My community health worker, Bridgeen, has given me all the information I need for this new, daunting development stage. She has informed me about purées and the foods that should be in them. She has told me about the importance of graduating soon to foods with lumpy bits.
But she has also let slip about a new alternative method; something called baby-led-weaning.

  Baby-led-weaning is a fancy term for letting a baby feed itself. Food is cut up into finger-sized portions, then placed in front of the kid. Six-month-old babies are just about able to grasp hold of these assorted pieces. And they are at an age where everything, edible or not, goes straight into their mouths. What it means is that I don’t have to spend hours smashing up foods into mush. I can ditch feeding spoons from the get-go. And I will not have to pretend to be an airplane or chu-chu train to entice Aran to open his mouth.

  I like the idea of baby-led-weaning and decide to give it a go. In doing so, Aran is not only reducing his reliance on breast milk, he is also becoming a little more independent himself, feeding himself what he likes, whenever he likes. I go straight to IKEA and buy Aran a high chair with a large serving tray. I then get busy, chopping up bananas and cooked carrots into long, fist-sized chunks. I place all the yellow and orange blocks on to Aran’s new table, then wait to see what happens.

  Aran immediately goes for the banana and tries to pick it up. His hold is too hard however, and the fruit dissolves into mush. Regardless, he sticks his fist into his mouth and sucks on the foreign food. Aran consumes approximately one per cent of the banana. The other ninety-nine per cent falls back on to the table or lands with a splat on the floor. Having worked out what the yellow thing tastes like, Aran now makes a beeline for the carrot. The carrot survives Aran’s handhold a little better, but still gets pretty beat up. Aran still has no teeth, but he manages to tear chunks off it. He chews the carrot pieces in his gummy mouth, and then ceremoniously spits them out.

  Tom soon comes into the kitchen to check out the latest goings-on. He spots the pieces of carrot and banana smattered on the floor beneath Aran’s chair. He takes a quick sniff at the fruit and veg, and licks up all the carrot pieces he can find. If Tom is willing and able to clean up Aran’s mess, he could prove very useful in this whole baby-led-weaning process.