Bump, Bike & Baby Page 14

  I wonder if I should talk to someone about all that’s going on. Mothers with babies often hang out together and share their respective woes. But when I think about calling up a friend for coffee, I feel too stressed by the idea. Most of my friends are either childless, or had their kids a long time ago.

  I tell myself to wise up, that my friends will understand my predicament. But I have this terrible worry that I’m just not that interesting to talk to any more. I used to be able to converse about world politics and exciting countries I’ve visited. Now all I can talk about is babies and training, in ridiculously minute detail.

  Some friends do reach out and tell me to call round to theirs any time. A few of these pals have chosen not to have kids of their own. I wonder if they want to see me in the flesh just to confirm that they’ve indeed made the right decision. And though I truly appreciate their invites, I use Aran as the perfect excuse not to go. ‘Sure he’ll wreck your place now that he’s crawling,’ I would say. ‘He might be asleep in the afternoon. Best we give it a miss.’ My own chronic sleep deprivation is also making me avoid interacting with others. Even when out shopping, I find myself starting a sentence, then halfway through, forgetting what I originally wanted to say. If I can’t even communicate while buying groceries, how will I ever be able to hold a proper conversation about anything substantive?

  My problems with communication fail to end there. Even Pete can’t seem to get simple messages across to me now.

  It is 8 pm on a weekday evening when he gives me a call. I’m sitting in front of the TV, watching nothing in particular.

  ‘You won’t believe it,’ he says. ‘I’ve missed the Greystones train.’

  ‘Can’t you get the next one?’ I ask, idly clicking the remote.

  ‘It’s not for another half an hour.’

  So?

  ‘I’ll just get the train to Bray, and see if there’s anything from there,’ he adds.

  There’s a brief silence on the line.

  ‘Well, okay,’ I say. ‘Aran is fast asleep here. So we’ll see you when you get home.’

  I’ve already hung up before I start wondering, am I meant to collect him from Bray? I don’t even know where the train station is in the town. And I don’t want to wake up Aran by throwing him into our cold car.

  It is past 9 pm when Pete finally collapses through our front door.

  ‘So you got the last train back in the end?’ I say when he comes into the sitting room where Aran and I are snoozing.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ he says.

  Tom is prancing around Pete’s feet, furiously trying to greet his master, but Pete doesn’t even notice this warm canine welcome. This is very strange behaviour.

  ‘What? Did you want me to go collect you?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ Pete screams, his face turning bright red. ‘Do you not listen any more?’

  ‘Listen? You didn’t ask me,’ I say. ‘You did not say the words, “Please come and collect me from Bray Station”.’

  ‘I feckin’ fell asleep on the platform, I’m so wrecked. Some guy had to come and wake me up to catch the next train.’

  I look straight at him. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Look, we’re living in Greystones because of you,’ Pete spits out from nowhere.

  ‘But, I thought you liked . . . ’ I say, stopping short. I’m not actually sure I know what Pete likes or even thinks any more.

  ‘All you seem to do these days is train,’ Pete says, suddenly on a roll.

  I’m gobsmacked. I thought we’d already agreed to these terms and conditions. And he knows full well I used to suffer from selfish runner syndrome, racing at least once if not twice a week. I was convinced I was a lot better now, and was a bit more considerate about my training habits.

  ‘And another thing: you seem totally incapable of compromise,’ Pete continues, his voice rising to fever pitch. ‘I work hard all week, and then when I’m finally home at the weekends, you’re off biking or running for hours.’

  ‘Well, you’re not the one stuck doing all the cooking and cleaning and shopping and laundry,’ I shout back in retaliation. I’ve had enough of his crap. ‘You come home and you don’t even have to lift a finger.’

  ‘What? Do you expect me to do all the housework as well as be the sole breadwinner?’ Pete says. ‘Do you have any idea how stressful it is when I’m the only one bringing home money?’

  ‘I am sick of this shit!’ I scream, my hands gesticulating wildly. ‘I was totally fine going out to work and earning before you even came along.’

  We are so busy roaring and fighting with each other that we forget all about Aran. Our raised voices wake him abruptly from his sleep. Pete hurries to pick Aran up from his seat just as he begins to bawl.

  ‘Give him to me,’ I say.

  ‘No. I’ll calm him down.’

  ‘Stop it. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Aran’s cries start to crescendo, until neither Pete nor I can hear each other speak. Pete turns and walks out of the room with Aran, and opens the front door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I shout, fearing they’re about to disappear forever into the dead of night.

  ‘Standing outside,’ Pete says, rocking Aran in his arms. ‘It seems to calm him down.’

  I severely doubt his strategy, but I am quickly proven wrong. Aran breathes in the fresh night air, and snuggles into Pete’s chest.

  How is this little baby going to survive his parents if they’re fighting all the time?

  ‘Look, we can’t go on like this,’ says Pete with a sigh. ‘We need to make this work.’

  I lean heavily on the front door post. ‘Come inside. And let’s talk.’

  We sit down together in the sitting room, and agree not to raise our voices. Pete wraps Aran in his blanket and settles him on his knee.

  ‘So, is Greystones the problem?’ I ask.

  ‘No. It’s not that,’ Pete says. ‘It’s just . . . the work. It’s so much pressure.’

  ‘Well, do you want me to find a job then?’ I ask. ‘Will that help at all?’

  Pete thinks for a moment. ‘Probably not,’ he says, stroking Aran’s head absentmindedly. ‘Money’s not the problem. And if you go back, it means that we’d have to put Aran into full-time childcare. I’m not sure I want that right now.’

  I’m not sure I want that either. I sort of like being Aran around, but lately I’ve been feeling guilty that I’ve not gone back to work yet. Even though I know that, if I do start back, I’ll then feel guilty about leaving Aran with full-time childminders.

  ‘Let’s get another car,’ Pete says out of nowhere.

  ‘Well, if you want to,’ I say. ‘But how will that help?’

  ‘Then I can drive up and down to the train station,’ he says. ‘And I won’t get caught in the rain again.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘I’ll ask around to see if anyone’s selling anything cheap,’ trying to help him out with his plan. ‘And I’m sorry if you think I’m training all the time. But honestly, Pete, it’s the only thing that keeps me sane and gives me a break from Aran.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry too,’ Pete says. ‘It’s just, I didn’t realise it was making me feel so frustrated.’

  I assumed that, when Pete’s home, he’d want to just spend time with Aran, and that I could disappear for a while. I didn’t realise Pete wanted me to hang out with them as well, and be like a ‘normal’ family.

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I promise never to train on Saturdays. And I won’t do big sessions on Sundays.’ There goes the hope I’d had of joining a local cycling group and going for three- to four-hour spins at the weekend. Now there’s some real compromise on my part. ‘And maybe we could get some sort of backpack for Aran,’ I say, trying to solve as many of our issues in one fell swoop.

  Pete looks a little confused.

  ‘I’ve seen how you still struggle to tie the wrap on to yourself,’ I say. ‘But Aran really does like being carried. I could get one of those h
olders with clips that are easy to put on and take off.’

  Pete goes quiet for a minute. He must be thinking of how a cheap used car and a simplified baby carrier could potentially affect his quality of life. But if an automobile, a backpack, and less weekend training on my part can save our relationship, then I’m all for giving them a try.

  ‘I just don’t get it though,’ I say, sensing a chance to speak to Pete about something that’s been bothering me for a while. ‘It seems to me that we’ve been really lucky. Like Aran is a great baby, healthy and everything. And we have no major worries to deal with.’ I look up to see if Pete is still listening. ‘So how come having a new baby is so incredibly hard? Like, how do others even begin to cope if their baby is sick, or everything isn’t okay at home? How do single parents survive? How do people manage when the kid isn’t biologically theirs?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea, really I don’t,’ Pete says. ‘But it’s definitely given me a whole new level of respect for people who manage to bring up children in difficult circumstances like those.’

  I nod silently in agreement.

  ‘Listen, I knew it was going to be difficult having Aran,’ Pete says. ‘And, trust me, I definitely have no regrets. But at times I think both of us are really pushed to our limits.’

  I suggest we sit for a while and drink a bit of wine. I rarely drink these days, seeing that I’m still breastfeeding, but I feel like it might be a good way for us to reconcile.

  I hand Pete his glass as he makes himself comfortable on the couch.

  ‘We should have a date night,’ Pete says, as I clink my glass against his. ‘Like, get a babysitter or something.’

  We’ve not been out together without Aran since he was born last year. We used to go out every night for dinner when we lived abroad. It’s amazing how a new arrival can change your lifestyle so radically.

  My initial reaction is to say no. Where would we get a babysitter? Where would Pete and I even go? Then I realise that a night out now and then might make our relationship a little healthier than it is right now. Dinner out might actually spur me on to wear something a little classier than the spew-drenched rags I seem to throw on every day. Thanks to nursing Aran, I have an actual cleavage, for the first time ever. I might as well make the most of this development, which I know won’t last.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll ask at the crèche if there is someone who can look after Aran for an evening. And maybe we can go for dinner at one of the restaurants in town.’

  It sounds so ridiculously simple when I say it all out loud. But it’s amazing how long it has taken us to formulate this straightforward plan.

  Pete relaxes back into the sofa and beams the widest smile I’ve seen in years.

  ‘So, if I get a date with my lovely wife, what do you need to make you happy?’

  I don’t even need to think about it for a second. ‘Can you look after Aran on the odd Sunday morning, so I can go mountain running?’

  14

  Adventure

  Although the Wicklow Mountains are a stone’s throw from Greystones, I rarely manage to reach them. It is a minimum twenty-minute drive to get to any decent hill, meaning travelling alone takes a whole forty-minute chunk out of my allotted crèche time. This, in my mind, is an inefficient use of childcare.

  With Pete agreeing to mind Aran at home on Sunday morning, I decide to indulge in a couple of guilt-free hours of mountain running. The Irish Mountain Running Association have scheduled a race out of Glendalough in mid-April, coinciding nicely with our new babysitting pact. The race promises twenty-eight kilometres of running over three peaks, with nearly one thousand four hundred metres of climb. It sounds like a perfect way to get reacquainted with the hills.

  Long mountain races don’t attract many women. So I’m not surprised when I am the only lady at race registration. Even the men are far and few between, put off by the long distances, steep climbs, and tricky navigation.

  With five minutes to spare, a car speeds up to the start. A somewhat flustered Niamh throws herself out of the passenger seat. ‘I’m so disorganised!’ she giggles, throwing a map into her back pocket and sprinting past me towards the registration desk. The last time I saw her was two years ago, when she lugged her newborn baby into the crowded pub. She is a transformed woman from the one I saw that day. I had heard on the grapevine that she has returned to her old winning ways. Just a few weeks ago, she triumphed at a major half-marathon trail race through the Wicklow Mountains. And by the looks of her new streamline, svelte self, she could easily float up and down a mountain or two today.

  At the stroke of noon, the race director waves us off. The pace is fast from the start as we climb the forest road and head towards St. Kevin’s Way. I try to keep in step with the leading men. But my haste for speed means I fail to think about the direction in which I am heading. Niamh takes a clever shortcut through the forest, and hits the trail right in front of me. I push to catch up with her, cursing my error, and together we run shoulder to shoulder towards Scarr Mountain.

  All of sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I see Niamh flinch.

  ‘Oh no!’ she exclaims. But even with something obviously wrong with her, Niamh refuses to slow.

  ‘What’s up?’ I say, between my laboured breaths.

  ‘My pelvic floor’s just gone.’

  Before having Aran, I would have stayed silent, too embarrassed to enquire about her sudden incontinence. But, having gone through childbirth myself, I totally understand what she means.

  ‘Oh God, I thought that was just me,’ I say, forgetting all about the race. ‘I have to be careful not to wet myself, especially when I sneeze.’

  ‘You should talk to Maeve,’ Niamh says, barely breaking from her stride. ‘She can’t run downhill any more without her bladder giving out.’

  With that last piece of highly personal information, Niamh edges past me.

  We battle each other up and over Scarr, then down into Glenmacnass. But as we start the long boggy climb to Tonlagee’s top, Niamh leaves me defiantly in her tracks. I put my head down and keep trudging on, wondering if her descending skills will be up to speed, or if her pelvic floor might crack once more.

  Unfortunately for me, neither of these possibilities comes to pass. I commence the final ascent of Camaderry Mountain with one last-ditch effort to catch Niamh before the line. Every now and then I catch glimpses of her on the horizon, just enough to give me hope. I am so busy trying to chase her down that I barely notice overtaking several male competitors. They can’t work out what is up with the ladies today. Niamh and I seem hell-bent on destroying each other and any men who dare to come in our way.

  In the end, I fail to catch up with Niamh. She edges me into second place by nearly two minutes. I am convinced she is speedier now than ever before, even after having a few kids.

  I come home and tell Pete about my battle with Niamh on the hill. He is in the bathroom, perched on the toilet, supervising Aran’s bedtime bath.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ he says. ‘She’s never beaten you by this much before.’

  ‘I know!’ I say. ‘It’s really quite a comeback.’

  My attention diverts to Aran, who is manically splashing the bubbles. It’s amazing how much enjoyment he gets from a little bit of froth.

  ‘How many children did you say she has?’

  ‘Two,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe we need to bang out a few more so,’ Pete says. ‘Might make you faster as well.’

  I have dreaded the day when Pete brings up the possible extension of our family. Before Aran, ignorance was bliss. But now I know exactly what pregnancy and childbirth entails, and it ain’t to my liking at all.

  ‘Aran isn’t even one year old,’ I say. ‘Will you just give me a break?’

  ‘Sure my mother was already pregnant with my brother when I was Aran’s age.’

  ‘Back in the 1970s?’ I say. ‘I think family planning in Ireland was a little different back then.’

  �
��You know I want four kids,’ Pete says, looking up at me wistfully from the toilet seat.

  We’ve had this conversation already. Pete wants to emulate his younger brother who already has four children. But I feel way too old to reproduce three more times.

  ‘You can have two. That’s it,’ I say. I can see the value of Aran having a sibling to play with, and occasionally to beat up. But given how we’ve struggled caring for just Aran, I can’t imagine how we’d cope with one more, let alone two or three new additions.

  ‘Okay, three,’ Pete says.

  ‘This is not a negotiation.’

  ‘All right,’ Pete finally concedes. ‘Let’s just try for a second, and then we’ll see.’

  I lean heavily against the bathroom door. It’s hard work changing my husband’s mind.

  ‘So when do we begin?’ Pete says.

  I pat him on his head as he flashes me an expectant, cheeky grin. ‘We’ll see,’ I say, before turning and making a hasty retreat from the bathroom.

  The answer is, I don’t know when we can begin. There’s part of me that wants to compete in this year’s racing season and use all the training I’ve done. The last race is usually in October, so maybe we can hold off until then?

  However, there is a bigger issue for us to deal with; my periods have yet to return. Breastfeeding can often make periods completely disappear. I thought, however, that once Aran started on solid foods three months ago, his reduced number of feeds would allow them to come back. I’m still waiting, and waiting, and there’s no sign of any yet. Not that I’m complaining, but without any periods, there’s little chance of me getting pregnant again.

  Apart from that, I don’t have much time to think about another baby. I am too busy running after Aran who is getting into everything. He has discovered the stairs and the excitement that comes from climbing up them precariously. He has found out that drawers can bang and clatter when they are opened and closed ad nauseam. Aran has worked out that he can climb into kitchen cabinets as well. I find him one day perched on a cupboard shelf, hiding behind a mixer and several Pyrex bowls.