Bump, Bike & Baby Page 6

  But training isn’t all about how it makes me look. It also challenges me to better myself. It allows me to set small daily goals, to run a certain distance or clock a given speed. If I achieve it, I beam with pride for the rest of the day. And if I don’t make it, although disappointed, it gives me a clear goal to work towards next time.

  With Pete agreeing to daily training slots, and racing shelved until after Bump’s birth, I resolve to try and keep fit for the time being. I return to my training schedule and go out for simple jogs. Knowing my running days are numbered, I peruse online forums to see how long I’ve got.

  The pinnacle of pregnancy running seems to be getting past twenty-eight weeks of gestation, or past your second trimester. Beyond that pale, the baby grows rapidly. I just wonder how big Bump will get before I must hang up my own trainers?

  I manage to keep my daily runs going until I reach week thirty. I have resorted to wearing oversized T-shirts and baggy pants; the only gear that still fits me. I feel fat and unfashionable, yet ecstatic to still be able to exercise with an obvious baby in my belly. All good things always come, however, to an eventual end.

  I am on my usual route, a one-hour slow jog on quiet rural roads. It is now two months since the Inishowen adventure race, when the downhill mountain section gave me a fleeting stitch. I have not had such pain since. I had put it down to a racing thing.

  I am thirty minutes into my run as I start down a small incline. When the stitch comes this time, I am totally paralysed. I double over in pain as it pierces my side. Even when I start the long walk home, the stitch refuses to go away.

  I have left my mobile phone at home, as my temporary running gear does not have a proper pocket. I had figured trouble would never come my way, but when I find myself barely able to walk, I go into a blind panic.

  I will never reach home.

  Pete will never find me.

  If only a car would drive past and help me.

  But I am so deep into rural Ireland that I see not even a single soul. I stretch and take deep breaths; the pain slowly subsides.

  After ten minutes of shuffling, I finally reach the main road and civilisation. I climb on to the pavement with my right arm raised high and thrown limply over my head. I wrap my left arm across my belly to hold on to my screaming right side. I must look a proper sight. Stabs of pain arrive without warning, making me stop and grit my teeth. Though I would gladly take a lift from a passing motorist, no one stops to offer this crazy, contorted, pregnant lady a free ride.

  It takes me another twenty minutes to finally reach our house. As soon as I get through our front door and see Pete in the sitting room, I burst into floods of tears.

  ‘What?’ Pete says, jumping out of his seat to catch me. ‘Oh God, what happened?’

  I am so distraught that I can barely speak. The shock of my run has just hit me.

  Pete does what he does best, and just gives me a huge hug.

  Susie told me to listen to my body, and now it’s screaming at me. It’s time for me to stop running, to stop trying to be a super-fit expectant mum. My body is telling me that I’ve had a good stint for the last thirty weeks. But now it’s time to curtail my running habit for the final ten weeks of this pregnancy.

  6

  Birth

  ‘Does anyone have any questions?’ the midwife asks, addressing our antenatal class. The mild-mannered woman is pointing to some photos pinned to a large whiteboard. I look down at Bump and back at the lady. How could Bump even contemplate doing such a thing to me?

  The midwife has just brought us through, in graphic detail, the process by which a baby is born. I still can’t work out how a baby so big can get out of a hole so small. Words from the presentation, like tearing and stitching, stand out in particular in my mind.

  Pete is leaning forward in his seat, avoiding all eye contact. I can’t wait to get him out of this classroom, and berate him for what he’s done to me.

  ‘And birthing partners, what kind of things can you do to help during labour?’

  More silence. I think this midwife might need to give us a couple of hints.

  ‘Well, you can hold their hand, wipe their face, maybe give them sips of water,’ she says.

  ‘What about massaging their back and shoulders?’ one man says, searching for brownie points.

  Pete nudges me. ‘That sounds like a great idea,’ he says, looking all pleased with himself.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ I say. ‘If you dare massage me when I’m having contractions, I will seriously punch you between screams.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Moire,’ Pete says, retracting his smile. ‘You know I like to participate in things.’

  Whereas I am happy to do individual sports, Pete is the ultimate team player. I need to remind my husband that giving birth is definitely a solo game.

  ‘Okay, so does everyone know how to put nappies on?’ the midwife asks, quickly changing the topic.

  Pete and I stare at the ceiling. We are nappy-fitting virgins.

  The midwife passes around baby-sized plastic dolls and a set of Pampers each. It brings back vivid memories of how, when I was small, I dealt with my Tiny Tears doll. My Tiny Tears came with a baby’s bottle and a soother, and had a pee hole to wee water out. With no nappies to hand, I found the soother not only fitted in the doll’s mouth but also sat perfectly snug in the orifice located between its legs. I was able to feed her the contents of several baby bottles before she started to leak. I think though it’s probably best not to relate this childhood experience to the midwife, and just to listen quietly to her commands.

  The nappy-fitting exercise proves a lot less taxing than initially thought. There are no safety pins or complex folds to do. Just two sticky tabs, and a quick check to make sure it’s not on back to front.

  ‘So does anyone have any other questions?’ the midwife says, wrapping up the day’s session.

  Pete raises his hand. I look over at it, desperately wishing it back down.

  ‘I just wanted to ask,’ he says, keeping us all in suspense. ‘Do we need to buy something called a travel system?’

  I feel Bump deliver a warning kick. I think he wants his daddy to stop embarrassing him in front of the other expectant parents.

  ‘Well, not if you don’t want to,’ the midwife says, encouraged by the question. ‘Of course, you’ll need a car seat for the baby, as that’s a legal requirement. But as for all the other stuff, it’s really up to you.’

  The midwife diverts her attention away from Pete to the other members of the class. But Pete is on a roll, and has more questions to ask.

  ‘And, just to clarify,’ he says, ‘do we also need to buy a new car?’

  I bite my lip. I’m going to have to sack my birthing partner once we’re out of here.

  ‘It’s just that someone told me our car’s too old and small,’ Pete says, trying to clarify. True enough, we had bought our second-hand Citroen Xsara hatchback off a narrow country roadside a couple of years back, for less than five hundred pounds.

  ‘Parents are often told they need to buy loads of things,’ the midwife says, taking a few small steps towards us. ‘But between you and me, you will probably work out what you need and don’t need once the baby is born.’

  Pete and I are currently feeling pressure to buy lots of baby things before the birth. Some have interpreted our reticence to spend hard cash as a distinct lack of interest in the child. But, having lived in developing countries and witnessed parenting there, we know that children can be brought up fine without major expenditure. Anyhow, we don’t like being hassled into spending money unnecessarily.

  We eventually mention our lack of baby items to our friends and family. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ they all say. ‘Sure we can give you some of ours.’ They happily donate to us a mountain of toys and baby books. Pete’s sister kindly gives us tons of barely used baby clothes. We also receive a cot, a steriliser, and a car seat, all free of charge.

  We welcome all these donations,
amazed by their generosity. It takes a while for us to realise that they are simply glad to rid their garages of all their old baby junk.

  While we stock our own house with baby-related stuff, I start to dream of the day when the baby finally makes his exit, and I get my body back. A friend tells me of the benefits of camomile tea to induce early labour. I drown myself in the beverage, hoping the baby will hate the taste as much as I do, and take an early flight.

  I also haven’t forgotten the promise I made myself to get fit again after the birth. I want to be like Susie and to get back in the saddle as soon as I possibly can. I am aware though of the array of difficulties women can experience post-pregnancy. Our bodies are flooded with the hormone relaxin, which relaxes the body’s muscles, joints, and ligaments. It’s great for making the pelvis stretchy enough for birth, but it can also cause post-partum problems with ankles, knees, and hips. The Olympic runner Jo Pavey suffered a stress fracture in her foot after having children, all because relaxin extended her foot size and changed her foot mechanics. Then there are the issues associated with a growing belly. A baby can make abdominal muscles separate, effectively ripping the core apart.

  I am so worried about these repercussions that I decide to seek out help. I need someone to guide me methodically through this period, someone with the right knowledge and experience.

  I decide to find myself a coach.

  I ask my mountain runner buddies if there is anyone they can suggest. But before I can select the right instructor, I have to figure out what I want to train for. I think back to the adventure race I did across Inishowen peninsula when I was five months pregnant. Despite the obvious discomforts, I really enjoyed the event. I liked the mix of biking, running, and kayaking that it delivered up.

  In addition, this single day adventure-racing format is becoming increasingly popular in Ireland. There are races springing up all around the country, as far south as Killarney and as far north as Donegal. There are also a few dotted along the country’s wild Atlantic coastline in places like Dingle, Westport, and Achill. Doing such races might motivate Bike and I to get out and about, and not get stuck permanently at home with husband, baby and dog.

  After making a few enquiries, I contact Eamonn Tilley, a triathlon coach based in Dublin. We arrange to have a Skype call to see if we can work together.

  Eamonn pops up on my screen as soon as I answer the phone. He is sitting down at his home office desk, tapping in some details on a hidden keyboard. Friends have told me Eamonn is a towering figure of a man. My Skype connection shows him from the shoulders up, so I feel a little less overwhelmed.

  I am still nervous though. I’m not even sure if he’ll agree to coach me or not. I’m close to giving birth, will soon have a baby to nurse, and I’m asking him to train me in a discipline I’ve never really competed in.

  ‘Ah, sure I have two kids myself,’ Eamonn says, trying to put me at ease. They are all grown-up now, he tells me, but he knows what it’s like to raise them. Eamonn also tells me he used to mountain run for Ireland back in the 1980s. He knows the race routes I’ve done and some of the athletes against whom I’ve competed. It is good to know that we at least share some common ground.

  I give him a rundown of my athletic history, as well as my preference for long-distance mountain running and multi-day races. I tell him I doubt I’ll have the time or energy to do such pursuits once the baby comes and instead ask if it’s possible to train for the one-day adventure races that I am hoping to contest.

  ‘Not a problem,’ he says. ‘Happy to support you with your goals.’

  With that reassurance, I ask him when we can get started.

  ‘Just wait to have your baby and get your six-week check-up,’ Eamonn says. ‘Once the doctor gives you the all-clear, we can definitely start from there.’

  I was kind of hoping we could start training with immediate effect. It feels like it will be forever before I can get fit again. Sure there are days when I can barely get off the couch from pregnancy tiredness. But there are also days when I am full of energy and gung-ho to get back exercising again.

  ‘Just keep active in the meantime,’ Eamonn says on a positive note. ‘Swimming and walking are great during the final stages of pregnancy.’

  It all sounds so sedate, yet realistic for the shape I’m in. I promise to do as he suggests, and we agree to touch base again in a couple of months’ time.

  His swimming and walking suggestions come at an apt time. Bump, Bike, and I are not getting along as well as we had before. Bump is taking up far too much room when I lean forward in the saddle and try to hold the handlebars. I feel like I’m balancing a basketball between Bike’s crossbar and my bulging boobs. But Bump is not content with just this latest acquisition. He is busy pushing my internal organs out of the way, and has recently commandeered the place where my lungs are meant to be. My lungs now only have a fraction of the space they normally would have to function. Each breath is now smaller and more laboured. Thanks to Bump, by week thirty-five, Bike and I must tearfully part company.

  I am resigned to exercising in the local swimming pool. I swim up and down the lanes for an hour each day, feeling the drag from Bump’s bulge. Being the frugal person that I am, I refuse, however, to fork out for a maternity swimming costume. I resurrect an old bikini that is stretched from overuse. It fits perfectly over my bum and breasts, with Bump fully exposed now in the flesh.

  Not that I really care what I look like by now, because I am living in denial. In my head, I still have a flat stomach and tiny bottom. I refuse to use any mirror that shows anything to the contrary. I shun full-length looking glasses, sticking to ones that only show me from my shoulders up. Much to Pete’s disappointment, I even outlaw him from taking any photos of the pregnancy. I have no desire to be reminded at a later date of the sorry state my body is presently in.

  I also take over our household’s dog-walking duties during my final months. It means that, for half an hour each morning, I have a leisurely stroll with Tom. Tom seems chuffed with this consistent routine now in place. He is also ecstatic when he can romp off to sniff out other dogs, while I am too slow to catch up and pull him away from his new-found friends.

  Out of sheer curiosity, I head one day to a local studio for a bit of pregnancy yoga. I have done yoga before, so am looking forward to a proper stretch. However, the session turns out to be sedentary to the extreme. When we are told to lie on our backs for ten minutes and think about how much we love our unborn babies, I resist the temptation to leave mid-session, but resolve never to go back again. I wish I could feel all this mushy love stuff that the other mums-to-be seem to feel.

  It’s at times like this that I wonder if there is something profoundly wrong with me.

  The forty weeks are not up soon enough. My due date arrives, then passes without baby coming out.

  ‘It’s pretty normal, I hear,’ I tell Pete, when he wonders if there’s a problem. ‘First-time babies rarely arrive on schedule.’

  The next day comes, D-Day plus one, and Pete is starting to lose the plot. It seems as if he is following my every move and won’t let me out of his sight. I decide to go to the supermarket just to get away from him.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ Pete says, grabbing his coat. Pete never comes grocery shopping with me.

  ‘No, you’re grand,’ I say. ‘I’ve only got a few things to get.’

  ‘Sure I’ll help you with the bags.’

  We arrive back home with food for the entire week. Pete has spent the whole trip glued to my side. I just can’t shake him off my tail.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I say, when I see he’s busy putting the groceries away. I run out the door before he can object, and in my haste, forget my mobile phone.

  I take a long stroll via a deserted beach, delaying my return. I’m so tired of being pregnant. And now my husband won’t feckin’ leave me alone.

  Pete is worried sick by the time I reach home.

  ‘You didn’t answer my calls,�
� he says.

  ‘Sure we’ve spent all day together,’ I retort. ‘I’m sure you had nothing additional to say.’

  Two hours later, my waters break. I am very lucky they didn’t go when I was on my extended walk.

  If I thought Pete was losing it this morning, he is now totally freaking out.

  ‘Calm down, Pete,’ I say. ‘Just drive me to the hospital, and the midwives can take it from there.’

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ he says, as he nearly takes several wrong turns in the car. It is only when we arrive at Altnagelvin Hospital around 9 pm that he finally stops hyperventilating. I wheel my bags up to the maternity ward while Pete parks the car, badly.

  I am less than thirty minutes in the door when the contractions start to come. I am whisked away to the birthing suite, where a large jacuzzi lies in wait. The lights are low as two midwives gently help me up the steps and down into its warm waters. Pete looks a little jealous as he arrives in and sits down outside the huge tub. He loves a good spa weekend.

  I was told first-time mums can take ages to deliver. Bump, however, is in a hurry. The contractions come thick and fast. I feel like I’m having the worst period ever. I had heard water births are a great way to manage labour pain. But all I know now is that this hurts like hell. God only knows how bad childbirth is if it’s all done back on dry land.

  ‘Have some gas and air,’ the midwife says. I suck on the tube as if my very life depends on it. So much for my high pain tolerance levels! Who exactly was I kidding? But I am too proud to exit the waters and try a different pain method. I am in the water now, and that’s where I intend on staying.

  I lose all track of time as the waves of pain come and go. It is only when I see my skin all wrinkled that I realise several hours have passed. I look up to see Pete leaning on the bath’s edge, stifling a yawn. It must be well past midnight by now, way past his bedtime. I take his hand and try to tell him it will be okay. I want to thank him for not massaging my shoulders between my terrifying screams. It is only then I realise how exhausted I am, when I can barely say a thing. Pete grips my hand tightly. It is ridiculous how we are both in this together, but only I can do this alone.