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  With Aran getting to grips with proper solid food, I figure it might be time also to change his source of milk. I decide to give Aran some powdered formula. If I can wean him off breast milk, Aran will become less dependent on me. It also means my boobs can shrink back to some sort of normality.

  Getting formula feed into my child is the first obstacle I must tackle. With Aran still belligerent when it comes to bottles, I try giving him a cup. Much to my surprise, this change in tactic works. Aran takes little sips of formula feed from the two-handled mug. I feel like I am making real progress when it comes to feeding my kid.

  The next morning, Aran’s digestive system delivers bad news. I undo his nappy to find the most disgusting poo ever seen by mankind. It is liquid diarrhoea laced with carrot bits and black banana seeds. But the worst thing is that the formula milk has gone right through his system, burning the very skin off his baby bum. I try to put on nappy rash cream, but there is no skin left for it to stick to. Instead the cream slides straight off the burn marks that cover his entire bottom. Once I clean Aran up and put him in a new nappy, his tears dry up and he forgets the whole incident immediately.

  However, I am so traumatised by the sight of Aran’s wounded arse that I abandon my formula milk plan completely. Aran is going to be breastfed for the next six months, until he reaches the age of one and can handle normal cow’s milk.

  One of the bonuses of using a baby-led-weaning strategy is that Aran can basically eat the same food as me. It also means we can share all our meals by dining at the same time. My coach Eamonn has also asked me to keep a food diary to see how my nutrition is going. The diary shows that I eat six times a day. This is in perfect harmony with Aran and his tiny stomach that needs frequent, small snacks. The diary also shows the wide range of foods that I consume. There’s porridge, toast, scrambled eggs, cucumber, cheese, sweet potatoes, broccoli, roast chicken, Greek yoghurt and berries on a given day. I share a little of all these things with Aran, and let him pick and choose what he wants. The extensive menu, much of which ends up on the ground, also fascinates Tom. He gobbles up everything with a protein base, and slowly starts to expand his carbohydrate taste range.

  The one thing that Aran doesn’t partake in is my frequent coffee consumption. I know caffeine should only be taken in mild doses in case it affects athletic performance, but I need regular intake to keep me going these days. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep for nearly half a year, and coffee is the only thing that sustains me. I also have a duty to catch up on all the coffee I didn’t consume during the nine months I was pregnant. I am not surprised therefore when Eamonn advises me to cut my number of coffee breaks. I do as I am told, halving the number of coffee cups I take, while doubling the size of the mug I use. Coffee is too critical to my current survival strategy for me to sacrifice a single drop.

  The last few months have been difficult to say the least. I still can’t get over the amount of turmoil Aran’s arrival has caused. So when it comes to my birthday, I decide not to celebrate. I instead send a huge bouquet to my own mother, with a note saying, ‘Happy Giving Birth-Day.’

  As soon as Mum receives it, she gives me a ring. ‘Thank you so much for the flowers,’ she says. ‘They are so beautiful!’

  ‘Least I can do, Mum,’ I say. ‘I suppose birthdays will never be the same again for me, seeing that I have given birth myself.’

  ‘Sure it was a pleasure looking after all of you,’ Mum says. She has an amazing ability to always put a positive spin on past events.

  ‘But how did you manage to look after us kids?’ I say. She cared for three of us, while I am struggling to mind just the one.

  ‘I suppose you just get on with it,’ she says. ‘But really, I’m so proud of you all. And I think about you all the time.’

  I hope I’ll be as gushing about motherhood as my own mum when I look back at all the nappies and vomit and sleepless nights I’ve endured. But going through this has definitely given me a new-found respect for my own long-suffering parents.

  With Pete practically gone for most of the week, I start to settle in to Greystones and get on with raising Aran. We soon discover lovely cafes, playgrounds, and beaches where we can hang out together. We find a local community centre with a baby swimming pool where we regularly go for a splash. In Derry, I paid one pound for a thirty-minute baby swimming session. Here in Greystones, in the rip-off Republic, the same session costs ten Euros, eight times the price. Seeing that I already know the baby songs and actions, Aran and I choose to conduct our own private session in the swimming pool at no additional charge.

  While things get slightly easier with Aran, Eamonn has other ideas. It is during our weekly call that he reveals his latest cunning plan.

  ‘Can you get yourself a power metre?’ he asks.

  ‘Power what?’ I say.

  ‘Power metre. It’s for your bike. It will help us see how efficiently you are riding,’ he says. ‘It will tell me how fast or slow you’re pedalling, and how hard you’re working with each stroke.’

  Already Eamonn knows exactly how hard my heart is working when I run or bike. He knows how fast I go, precisely where I go, and how many calories I burn. He knows also what I’ve eaten to refuel, and how must rest I’ve had. At this stage, Eamonn knows more about me than I do about myself.

  I get a power metre that is fitted into the front chain-ring. I pair it with my Garmin GPS, and go for a bike spin. When I upload the data, I am overwhelmed by the onslaught of new-fangled graphs. All of a sudden, I can see my cadence, power output, and balance. Eamonn has a quick look and straightaway gives me feedback.

  ‘You are using your right leg more than your left one,’ he tells me on a call.

  Who would have thought that was even possible?

  ‘Your left leg is providing forty-seven per cent of the power, and your right leg fifty-three per cent. You need to be trying to get more of a consistent fifty-fifty balance.’

  As if this wasn’t complicated enough, Eamonn wants to make my bike sessions even harder.

  ‘I want you to start power sets on your bike,’ he says. ‘You are to do a two-and-a-half-hour session. In the middle, you need to do twelve sets of two-minute efforts.’

  ‘Wooh, stop right there,’ I say. ‘What’s an effort?’

  ‘An effort is just a way of saying you work harder for a set period of time,’ Eamonn says.

  I still don’t get what he means.

  ‘Listen, you’ll be wearing a heart rate monitor during your session,’ Eamonn says. ‘So, for two minutes, I want you to have a heart rate between one hundred and forty, and one hundred and sixty-one. Then, I want to see your heart rate drop to between one hundred and nineteen, and one hundred and twenty-eight for three minutes. That will be your recovery time.’

  My eyes begin to glaze over. My head is starting to hurt.

  ‘But Eamonn, I’m not sure I can do a session like that,’ I whimper. ‘Like, it sounds really . . . hard.’

  ‘I know you can do it,’ Eamonn replies, in a surprisingly adamant tone. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t give it to you if I thought you weren’t able for it.’

  I think about it for a second. Even though I doubt my own ability, Eamonn’s professed confidence flicks a switch in me. It’s at times like this, when I lack self-confidence, another’s trusted opinion can make me do a U-turn. I suppose that’s why I need someone like a coach to help me train harder, to help me become faster, to help me believe in myself.

  I tell myself I’ve nothing to lose by giving the session a try. And anyhow, biking is my weakest discipline. I need to work on it if I’m to stand any chance of making the podium.

  I take a spin out towards the N11, the main dual carriageway between Dublin and Greystones. Cars and trucks whizz past me, breathing out toxic fumes, as I pedal precariously along the hard shoulder. It is the only road I know where I could possibly do such a session without encountering roundabouts, traffic lights, or major inclines. It is also unlikely I will encounte
r random chickens and donkeys straying across my path like they did in Cambodia.

  I warm up for twenty minutes, then start the first effort. Within a matter of seconds, my legs start to hurt. I watch my heart rate go up and up, until it hits the magic number of one forty. I know I am working hard as my breath becomes more laboured and fast. Thirty seconds done. Ninety more to go. Oh god, I don’t think I can make it.

  Only the thought of Eamonn’s comments makes me continue on. If I didn’t have to upload my data and let him dissect it, I’d turn around right now and start to freewheel slowly back home.

  My clock says twenty-two minutes have passed. With the initial warm-up taking twenty minutes, that means I have done my first two-minute effort. I immediately stop pedalling, and try to catch my breath.

  Okay, so that’s the first effort done. So now I have a three-minute recovery. That means I have to start my second effort when the clock says twenty-five minutes.

  The number twenty-five appears quicker than I expect. I push hard again on my pedals, increasing my cadence and power digits. But just as I am in the middle of the effort, my brain starts to malfunction.

  Is this my second effort, or third? Am I meant to stop at twenty-seven minutes or twenty-eight? Is my heart rate meant to be above one hundred and forty, or below it? Tiredness causes me to forget. And these efforts are tiring me out so quickly I am unable to do simple arithmetic.

  The tiredness and stress of motherhood is also aiding the decline of my short-term memory. Now when I think of it, I don’t even remember what it was like being young, single, and childless any more.

  13

  Fight

  With Pete working long hours and long days, I spend more and more time with Aran on my own. And at seven months old, Aran is actually becoming slightly fun. We play peek-a-boo for hours, Aran never tiring of my hiding and reappearance. His ceaseless giggles make me want the game to never end. I read picture books to him and do impressions of sheep and lions that send him into fits of laughter. We look at ourselves in mirrors and pull all manner of faces. I never thought I would ever enjoy doing this sort of thing with a real live baby, let alone a baby of my own.

  Aran also comes along with me sometimes when I have running training to do. We drive together to a nice flat place and, once there, I strap him into his buggy. Often we run up and down the promenade in the neighbouring town of Bray. We sprint past the holidaymakers as they lick their ice cream cones and stare contemplatively out to sea. We weave in and out of the prom walkers, dodging dogs with their owners, and little old ladies taking their morning stroll. Sometimes we drive into Dublin itself and visit one of its many lush parklands. We do circuits around Marley Park, through the woodlands, past the expansive pitches, and around the stately home that is Marley House. If we have time, we stop at the teahouse after our ninety-minute run. Together we share a slice of freshly baked banana bread, while I indulge in a nice warm cup of tea.

  Back home, Aran also assists me with my indoor exercises. I have become much stronger with the regular strength and conditioning sessions Eamonn has given me. I use Aran as a weight to increase the resistance, holding him close to me while I perform squats and lunges. He lies down beside me as I do my planks. I tickle his tummy to keep him focused on the workout.

  However, Aran is starting to behave in a way that is incompatible with using my bike rollers. Aran is learning to crawl. At first, I wasn’t too sure what was happening. I just kept on finding him wedged beneath the sofa and kitchen table. In his attempts to crawl forward, he pushes himself backwards and reverses under the furniture. But as soon as he works out how to use his forward gears, he crawls everywhere and anywhere he can go.

  I initially put him in a playpen to contain his movements while I ride my bike indoors. But he cries so much that I have to lift him out and abandon such stationary bike sessions entirely. I don’t want the neighbours to hear his screams, and think I am neglecting my child.

  Eventually I find out about a marvellous contraception called a jumperoo and immediately purchase one. It looks like a pair of large elasticated knickers attached to three big springs. I place Aran in the pants, and he immediately starts to jump up and down with great abandon. If he bores of bouncing, he is also surrounded by a massive circular tray, on which there is a riot of colourful toys that rattle, shake, and spin. It is the perfect device for keeping Aran amused while I ride my bike inside.

  I place Aran in the jumperoo one day when I have a particularly difficult bike session scheduled. I know it will take me at least ninety minutes to complete the warm-up, efforts, recovery times, and warm-down. I balance myself on Bike as I watch Aran starting to bounce around. I’m not sure how long Aran will last in his jumperoo before he will demand to get out. I start my first effort, a one-minute sprint at a heart rate over one forty. It is cold outside, weather that requires cycling mitts and waterproof overshoes. But inside, it is twenty degrees, and the sweat starts to drip off my body straightaway, landing in great drops on the kitchen floor. Aran watches me closely as I finish the effort, and I pedal slowly to recover. He then hits the music button on his play tray, and starts to blast out Old Macdonald on endless repeat. I suppose I’ll have to put up with this incessant nursery rhyme if I want a quiet baby who’ll let me do my training in peace.

  I do the next effort, already fighting to keep the pace. Aran is equally struggling with his present confinement. Aran watches me. I watch him, wondering which one of us is going to crack first. But all credit to the lad, Aran manages to jump up and down for a full ninety minutes, while I strain to complete my own session.

  Even when I leave Aran in crèche to do workouts on my own, Aran proves to be a perfect child. I hand him over to the childcare staff who welcome him warmly. Aran goes to them without the slightest whimper or complaint. I am so glad he doesn’t cling to me, or cry whenever I leave. It makes my departure so much easier, especially when I still suffer from guilt attacks about selfishly leaving him so I can do my own thing.

  As soon as I am out the door, however, I know I have made the right choice. Without Aran, I can now go trail running. I take the coastal path that leads out of Greystones, and heads north towards Bray. I follow it as it curls up around the rocky hill of Bray Head with its sweeping views over Dublin Bay. I climb the steep cliffs up to the hill’s summit, and touch the imposing stone cross. I breathe in the salty, sea breeze, and enjoy the brief solitude.

  Eventually I turn around and jog back to Greystones. Even though I’ve had a long run and my legs are tired, there is a lightness in my step. Aran spots me as soon as I return to the crèche. A smile spreads quickly across his face. He gets himself on to all fours, and crawls towards me at great speed from right across the room. I drop to my knees and open wide my arms as he crawls right into my lap, where he receives a massive hug.

  But while Aran and I are becoming best buddies, relationships are strained at home. Pete’s absence from day-to-day affairs means Aran barely acknowledges him these days. Pete has made a habit of coming back to the house after dark. When he tries to say hello to his son, Aran recoils and clings to me fervently. I don’t want to rile Aran further by going near my husband, so I just give Pete a welcoming nod. Pete has no other option but to turn his unfulfilled affections towards Tom.

  ‘Who’s a good dog then?’ Pete says, cuddling Tom in his arms if he is a baby, albeit a very hairy one.

  ‘You are not to start putting that dog in Aran’s wrap,’ I say, half-joking.

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Well, he’s dirty,’ I say. ‘Don’t you see where he sticks his nose?’

  I have also become estranged from Tom due to his lack of hygiene. I spend so much time washing my hands these days, after nappy changes and when feeding Aran, I don’t want to have another reason to have to scrub them clean again. If I pet Tom, I will have to wash my hands before going near the baby. So these days, I also prefer to acknowledge the dog with a mere perfunctory nod.

  Tom is also pertur
bed by his radical change in status. Before, he occupied a position of rank, as the beloved pet in a household full of doting adults. Now, he has a rival for my affections, in the form of baby Aran. Aran is, however, unaware of the dog’s recent and drastic demotion. He is instead fascinated by this white hairy beast that walks around at his eye level.

  While Tom is the happy recipient of Pete’s abundant affection, he is terrified of Aran. Tom hides from him in his covered crate that transported him back from Asia. But this refuge is insufficient to protect Tom from Aran’s persistent intrigue. I soon find Aran crawling into the crate in hot pursuit of our dog. Tom has his back up against the end of the box, growling at Aran, warning him to get the feck out of his home. Aran is totally oblivious to what this growling sound means. It is only when I hoist Aran out by the scruff of the neck that he realises the crate is now off limits.

  Even Bike has to take sides in this ongoing family feud. With Aran annoying the hell out of Tom, Pete puts Tom’s crate near the back door, where Aran will have difficulty finding him. This is, however, where Bike is normally placed. Pete is not too happy having to squeeze past Bike to get to his beloved dog.

  ‘Why don’t you put this thing in the shed?’ Pete says. He comes very close to kicking Bike’s wheel to indicate which ‘thing’ he is referring to. If he dares touch Bike with his foot, I swear I’ll castrate his dog.

  ‘Bike is way too valuable, Pete. There’s no way I’m leaving him outside.’

  ‘But can’t you just move it somewhere else?’

  ‘No, Pete. I can’t,’ I say, staring him down. ‘Bike stays right there.’

  Pete stomps upstairs in a mood. The household pecking order is now officially complete. Aran, Bike, and I are in charge. Pete and Tom are second-class citizens in their own home. The gulf between these two groups, however, has something sinister lurking within.

  With all the training I am doing, I have lost considerable weight. The bathroom scales say that I am even lighter than I was before getting pregnant in the first place. My fingers are getting noticeably thinner, and with that, my wedding ring is now a little loose. I need to be careful in case the ring falls off altogether, and my marriage with it.