Bump, Bike & Baby Read online

4

  Reconciliation

  The end of my first trimester can’t come soon enough. I’m tired of the nausea. I’m sick of the lethargy. And I’m bored with all the secrecy.

  The risk of miscarriage drops dramatically after twelve weeks, so Pete and I agree to keep the pregnancy under wraps until those three months have passed. I’m glad I have reached the mark now, with the baby still on board. My lack of alcohol consumption was starting to look awfully suspicious to my Irish friends and I’d run out of excuses for why I couldn’t enter key events on next year’s racing calendar.

  So, now that the first trimester is over, it’s time to announce the good news.

  First up are my parents. But seeing that Pete spilled the beans to my mother while he was emotionally wrecked, and totally pissed, there is only my father left to tell.

  ‘Sure I knew already,’ my father claims, as soon as I tell him I’m pregnant. I’m not surprised by his reaction. He likes to think he is always one step ahead of the game.

  ‘Weren’t you sick for most of your Ethiopia trip?’ Dad says, when I ask him how he had deduced this one. If sickness is the measure he uses to figure out I’m pregnant, he must have presumed I was knocked up a few times already during my overseas career.

  ‘Your first grandchild!’ Pete shouts, changing the tone.

  ‘That deserves a drink,’ my parents declare in return.

  Oh good God, here we go again.

  Now that parents have been duly informed, it is time to make it official with the medical establishment. I book an appointment to see the midwife for my twelve-week antenatal check-up.

  I sit down beside the uniformed lady all neatly dressed in blue. She has a large green file on her desk, with my name emblazoned right across it. It looks like this pregnancy thing is going to involve a lot of admin.

  ‘So is this your first baby?’ she asks, opening proceedings. Despite the formal setting, her manner is still friendly.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I say, my voice quivering, not realising how nervous I feel.

  ‘And how are you doing in general?’

  ‘Ah, fine. I think.’ I wonder if this is a trick question. Doesn’t she know I’ve been through hell and back with nausea and tiredness? Is she trying to uncover if I was foolish enough to go to Ethiopia, despite the doctor’s explicit warning?

  ‘Good,’ she says, opening up the file. She takes a pen off her desk, and prepares to take my history.

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you drink?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  I am wondering if these are the expected answers; if I will get a perfect score. But it’s not until she takes my blood pressure that I really start to excel.

  ‘One hundred and twenty over sixty. My goodness!’ she exclaims. ‘Do you run marathons?’

  I try to conceal my frown. ‘No. Not any more.’

  She registers my disappointment and quickly moves on.

  The midwife brings me through other lifestyle questions, areas like diet over which I have complete control. It is only when she starts asking about family history that I realise that I cannot influence everything.

  ‘Does anyone in your family have inherited diseases, like sickle cell anaemia or cystic fibrosis?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say, trying to wrack my brain.

  ‘Or has anyone in your family had a baby with an abnormality, such as spina bifida?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ I say, slightly unsure of my reply. My mother and grandmother were of a generation where birth defects or babies born out of wedlock were strictly not talked about.

  Then she asks about Pete. Fortunately he has a clean bill of health. It makes me think about other pregnant women who have not inherited such good luck from their partners or parents.

  Up until now, I have always had full control of my body. I could attribute any illnesses I’ve had to choices I’ve deliberately made. But now for the first time ever, somebody else could influence the health of this foetus growing inside of me.

  Our conversation also reminds me of all the things that can go very wrong during pregnancy. I understand now the doctor’s resistance and stern warnings about going to Ethiopia.

  ‘You’ll need to have a blood test today as well,’ the midwife tells me. ‘Just to check for things like HIV, syphilis, and hepatitis B, as well to find out your blood group.’

  ‘Blood group? I know I am O negative,’ I say. ‘Now that I think of it, my mum is as well. I remember her saying something about being lucky that all her children were O negative too.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what blood group your husband is?’ the midwife asks as a follow-up.

  ‘I am pretty sure that Pete has a different blood type to me, something like O positive,’ I say. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’ I ask, unsure if I want to unearth one right now.

  ‘No, not at all,’ the midwife says. ‘It is just that you’ll probably need an Anti-D injection when you’re twenty-eight weeks.’ And with that swift reassurance, she returns to my file.

  ‘Now, what type of birth would you like?’ the midwife asks, turning over the page. We have completed my history in under an hour, and now we have reached the planning stage.

  ‘A normal one would be fine, I guess.’

  ‘How does a water birth sound?’ she replies, beaming with enthusiasm. I do a double take. I took this middle-aged midwife to be a traditional health worker. But now she has suddenly transformed into Mother Earth. ‘They are wonderful! No doctors are there. It’s all midwifery-led. They have just opened a brand-new unit in Altnagelvin hospital where you’ll deliver.’

  I am no hippy-chick, but the idea of dimmed lights and soft sounds and warm water does sort of appeal.

  ‘The only thing is, the birthing pool limits your options for pain control. For example, you can’t have an epidural or pethidine if you’re delivering in water.’

  That does it. If it means I can showcase my exceptionally high pain tolerance levels, then I am all on for it. ‘Sign me up!’ I say.

  With the midwife meeting successfully complete, my first trimester is now well and truly over. As this significant milestone passes, I thankfully regain some of my old energy.

  I eventually tell my cycling club that I am pregnant, now that they’re used to having me around. My admission comes from my growing paranoia that something might actually happen when on the road. I also don’t want them accusing me of slacking when I refuse to head up the group. Working hard so that others can slipstream me would cause me to shoot off the end of Susie’s ‘perceived effort’ scale.

  When the biking lads find out my status, some of them become intent on beating me. The slightest hill, and they accelerate, lest the pregnant lady overtakes them. But in the end, these male instincts allow me to dander along at the back of the pack, keeping well out of collision trouble. However, they won’t know what hits them when I deliver the baby, then crush them with my secret weapon: my post-partum boost of speed.

  As soon as Pete sees that I’m back to semi-normality, he suggests that we go for a weekend away. ‘I hear it’s hard to travel once you’ve got kids,’ he says, ‘so let’s go somewhere before the baby arrives.’

  After my Ethiopia experience, I’m not sure I want to venture too far afield.

  ‘What about the Lake District?’ I say, expecting the idea to get shot down immediately.

  ‘Why? What race do you want to do there?’ Pete asks, assuming a hidden motive when I suggest visiting a mountain range.

  ‘No, there’s no race,’ I say, telling the truth for once. ‘It’s just a lovely area, with nice cafes and restaurants. And we could do some hillwalking.’

  ‘Hillwalking?’ Pete says, trying to suppress his laughter. ‘You?’

  Pete and I tried to hillwalk once. It was a total disaster. I bit my tongue as we climbed super slowly, taking forever to reach the summit. When we got to the top, the mountain runner in me wanted to turn around straight away and s
camper quickly downhill. All Pete wanted to do was stop forever and look at all the spectacular views.

  ‘We can bring Tom,’ I say, clutching at straws. ‘I hear Lake District pubs are dog-friendly.’

  ‘Tom can come?’ Pete says, perking up immediately. Tom’s ears prick up too, with the mere mention of his name. Pete picks him up and swings him round. ‘Tom, Tom, do you want to go the Lake District for walkies?’

  We book into a cosy guesthouse in a town called Ambleside. Tom is even allowed to sleep in the room with us, something that Pete appreciates immensely.

  ‘I wonder how Tom is going to react when the baby arrives?’ I say, when Pete has tucked the dog in for the night.

  ‘I am sure he’ll be fine,’ Pete says. ‘He’s such a good dog.’ Pete always takes Tom’s side.

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve read that some dogs can feel abandoned when the focus shifts away from them,’ I say, as I lie down in our comfy guestroom bed.

  ‘Things will be just fine,’ Pete says, kissing me goodnight. ‘I’m sure we’ll work it out.’

  Pete and I haven’t talked much about what happens once we have a baby. One or both of us seems to be always away for work these days. That, or when we’re at home, we are just too busy or tired to think about babies. We now have a weekend of close confinement ahead, with little else on the agenda.

  The next day, we decide to resolve our hillwalking deadlock, and go for a hike up Helm Crag. Though only four hundred metres in height, this peak towers gracefully above the Cumbrian village of Grasmere. The distinctive boulders on Helm Crag’s summit means we’ll easily be able to find it.

  ‘Now, no sprinting off,’ Pete warns me before we start our hike.

  ‘Pete, I’m four months pregnant,’ I say in disgust. ‘Of course I’ll take things easy.’ We bring Tom along for the walk, hoping his little doggie legs will carry him the full distance. Soon the rhythmic step of our feet and the lull of nature ease us to speak our minds.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be a good mother,’ I say from out of nowhere.

  Pete doesn’t try to contradict me. ‘What makes you think that?’ he says.

  ‘It’s just, I see all the other mothers. And I just don’t think I’ll be like them.’ I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. ‘Like they hold their babies and cuddle them and speak to them in baby talk and they genuinely love them. What if I don’t feel that way?’

  Pete says nothing. I turn to see if his silence is due to what I’ve said, or because of the steep slope we’re scaling.

  ‘I’m scared too, you know,’ Pete says, after a moment’s thought. ‘But then again, I never thought I could love another pet after my childhood dog, Reggie, died. Now look at how close Tom and I are.’

  As daft as it sounds, if Pete loves the baby as much as he loves Tom, things will work out just fine.

  ‘But don’t think we’ll be on our own,’ Pete continues. ‘We can always get some help.’

  I stop for a moment to consider his suggestion, but also to catch my breath. As we pause, I actually have time to take in the magnificent views. Snow-capped mountains surround us; High Raise rises to our west and Fairfield dominates the east.

  Damn it. I hate it when Pete is right.

  ‘We could always move abroad again for work, and maybe hire a nanny,’ Pete says. It may sound contrived, but it’s what a lot of our fellow colleagues end up doing. ‘Or we could move closer to our parents, and they could help us out.’

  I raise an eyebrow. Our parents are in their sixties and seventies. I wouldn’t subject them to such a workload.

  ‘And I am sure we could use crèches or childminders,’ Pete says, laying out all the options.

  ‘Well, whatever you think best, Pete,’ I say. ‘I’ll make the baby, and you can work out how’s it looked after.’

  We have never formally agreed to this division of labour. But given that I’m the one being waylaid for nine months, I think it’s important that Pete has some responsibilities lined up as well.

  We reach the top of Helm Crag, its rocky cliffs looming large over the landscape. With all three of us feeling fine, we decide to continue on. We head north to Gibson Knott, then on to Calf Crag at the end of the narrow ridge we’re following.

  ‘Look, it will be grand,’ Pete says, as he carefully picks his way through the boulders, showing me the way. ‘We always seem to work things out in the end. Like when we wanted to bring Tom back to the UK from Cambodia, and the civil servant responsible for his documents wouldn’t sign them without a bribe.’

  I remember it well. We came within hours of missing our flight and having to leave Tom in Cambodia forever. It was a stressful day.

  ‘Or what about when Tom got attacked by six street dogs and I had to pull him out of the fight with my bare hands,’ Pete says. ‘Tom and I both had to get rabies shots because of all the bites we got.’

  A litany of doggy traumas comes flooding back to me now.

  ‘What about the time I brought you and Tom for a forest run in Nepal, in the middle of rainy season?’ I add. ‘I didn’t know that the forest was full of leeches, and Tom got one up his arse.’

  ‘The blood pouring from poor Tom’s bum was something else!’ Pete says, before we both can’t help ourselves, and burst into nervous laughter.

  ‘God, if our parenting skills are anywhere like our canine ones, this baby is doomed!’ I say, looking down at poor Tom. Tom, however, is unaware of our guilt, as he happily dashes off along the ridge.

  Maybe it will all work out in the end. Tom is happy and healthy. Neither social services nor animal welfare have had to intervene on his behalf at any stage.

  We make it safely back to Grasmere via Far Easedale Gill valley, a respectable eight-mile hike. Tom’s white fur is grubby from galloping through miles of soggy bog. Pete’s feet are wet from crossing rivers, something he detests, but this time has refused to complain about. As promised, I refrained from mountain running for the whole of the day’s walk. Everyone has made some sort of compromise, and we have successfully managed to stick together.

  We decide to decamp to a café in the village for some much-needed, post-walk refreshment. As we sit down to our food, I notice two ladies in their mid-thirties at an adjoining table. They are both happily chatting to each other, oblivious to all around them. I see that one has a small baby on her lap, who seems to be fast asleep. But when I take a second look, I realise its mother is breastfeeding.

  ‘Look at that,’ I say to Pete. ‘Oh no. Actually, don’t look,’ I add quickly. ‘That would be very rude.’

  ‘What? What’s up?’ Pete says, his eyes darting everywhere, confused by what he’s banned from seeing.

  ‘It’s just, that woman is breastfeeding over there, like it’s totally normal.’

  Of course breastfeeding is normal. It’s just not normally done in public, at least not where I am from.

  ‘The midwife spoke to me about breastfeeding,’ I start to explain to Pete. ‘She said it was good for mums and babies, but I thought it might be hassle.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like too much hassle for her,’ Pete says, articulating what I am thinking. ‘Of course, it’s up to you what you want to do. But it might be worth a try?’

  I watch the mother for a moment, before looking away again. I am truly intrigued by how this baby is just hanging out, simply part of the mum’s daily routine.

  ‘It’s nice that lady can just meet with her friend and bring her baby along with her,’ I say. I’m so distracted I’ve forgotten my lunch, even though I was ravenous before we arrived.

  ‘But you do know that’s what I want as well?’ Pete says, tucking into his sausage rolls. ‘I don’t want this baby to radically change the way we live either. I still want to go out to restaurants, travel, go to rugby matches. I want to keep doing fun things too.’

  Though I think Pete is unrealistic about how much disruption this baby will cause, it is good to hear that he shares my hopes for a relaxed parenting approach.

 
We head back to the guesthouse to rest our weary heads. The last few months have been stressful. First there was the pressure I felt from Pete to get pregnant, then the realisation that I was indeed expecting. There were the woes of first trimester sickness, and the fears that I may never be fit again.

  This weekend’s time and space has allowed me to put some of these stresses away. Talking through these issues with Pete has not only helped resolve them, but has made me realise that I have a partner and parent in crime. Neither of us knows what’s going to happen, but we will work through it together, come what may.

  I lie back in bed and lay my hands on my stomach. Then I feel it. A little bump, just below my belly button. It’s as hard as a stone, barely noticeable, but it’s definitely there. I take Pete’s hand and lay his gently where mine was before. ‘Hello, Bump,’ Pete says softly. It has a new name.

  One month later, Pete accompanies me as I attend my twenty-week scan. By now Bump has grown bigger and I am beginning to show. I lie on the narrow, padded couch and make visible my growing tummy. The sonographer squirts the cold gel on my stomach and starts the ultrasound.

  Pete and I glare anxiously at the screen.

  ‘Here’s the back, and there’s the heart,’ the sonographer starts to explains.

  ‘And there’s the arms, hands, legs, and feet,’ she says, Pete and I listening intently to every one of her words. All has outwardly gone well thus far and I am looking fine. But we know all too well that the inside story can be a very different one.

  She slides the sensor across and takes a series of measurements.

  ‘It’s all looking good,’ she says as she finishes her work, and hands us a series of printouts.

  ‘Do you want to know the sex?’

  Pete and I nod ferociously.

  ‘Congratulations. You’re having a baby boy.’

  5

  Big

  Pete leaves the hospital, floating on cloud nine.

  ‘A boy? A baby boy?’ he says. ‘How cool is that?’

  He has always dreamed of breeding his own rugby squad, and now he has his first male team-member. They’ll be able to pass the ball to each other, go drinking in the pub together, and travel around Europe supporting Pete’s rugby club. I suspect in Pete’s mind he has already fast-forwarded several years, conveniently ignoring any stages involving dirty nappies or tearful tantrums.