I stand up to go to the post-natal ward and get a bit of rest. I struggle, however, to make it to my feet, and need to sit down again. What with all the concern over Baby, I nearly forgot I’ve just given birth and my own body isn’t in great shape. But even when I do get back to my hospital bed on the post-natal ward, I have difficulty falling asleep. My head is buzzing with so many thoughts and fears that sleep is impossible to find.
My insomnia proves somewhat advantageous, however, as Baby needs feeding every couple of hours. So in the dead of night, I return to the ICU to give him some more milk. The nurse had informed me that breastfeeding Baby also helps his condition. The breast milk somehow binds with the bilirubin and helps remove it from his system.
I sit down in front of Baby’s incubator, and start fiddling with its door. A nurse sees me trying to break in, and comes over to help.
‘Would you like a screen around you while you’re breastfeeding?’ she asks once we’re seated comfortably and about to begin.
I chuckle to myself. I fed Aran in Cambodia, balanced on street curbs as motorbikes cruised past. I gave him top-ups at adventure-racing start lines in Ireland with hundreds of competitors milling round. I think enough people have seen me breastfeeding that a screen is probably not necessary at this point.
Baby soon gets used to this mode of feeding. And, with regular doses of breast milk, he starts to fight the bilirubin onslaught. Within two days, he is moved next door to the less critical Special Care Unit. He is still under constant UV lights, but he is out of the incubator, and the tubes and wires are now gone.
At the same time, I am also discharged from the post-natal ward. Fortunately there is space for me to stay within the same unit as Baby, so that I can continue breastfeeding on demand. Pete continues to visit us every day, with updates on how he and Aran are getting on.
By the end of the week, Baby is sturdy enough for Aran to also come and pay a visit. Pete and I have both spoken to Aran about his impending brother, but there is only so much a two-year-old can comprehend. When we introduce them to each other, Baby seems oblivious to it all, but Aran is not amused to say the least. He takes one look at Baby, his sullen expression seeming to say, ‘And what exactly is this?’
Friends had warned us that Aran might not welcome a smaller rival. One friend has gone to the extent of buying a toy Thomas the Tank Engine to give to Aran. Our friend tells us to pretend to Aran that it’s a present from his younger brother. Aran develops a strong attachment to this toy train, and insists on taking it everywhere. Unfortunately, similar positive sentiments towards his younger brother are painfully slow to appear.
Though warm fuzzy feelings towards his new brother aren’t particularly forthcoming, in my absence Aran has finally started to enjoy the company of his father. Perhaps it’s Pete’s different pace of life that Aran appreciates. They take long walks together on the local beach with Tom, longer than I would ever go. Pete tries to teach Aran the art of rugby, though all Aran wants to do is run away with the ball. They go to the supermarket and wander the aisles, with Aran sitting in the shopping trolley and putting in whatever food he likes. Pete lets Aran wear his pyjamas until midday and stay up as late as he likes. And Pete allows him hours of screen time, as long as Aran stays quiet.
When Pete tells me the antics the two of them are getting up to, I don’t mind a bit. As long as the two of them are alive and well when I get out of hospital, they can do whatever they like. However, when exactly Baby and I will be allowed out of hospital remains still a mystery.
Soon, Baby is one week old and still under UV lights. His bilirubin levels have hovered just below the danger line that, if crossed, would mean a blood transfusion. The doctors want his levels to drop further before he can be discharged, so I wait painfully each day for Baby’s bilirubin result, to see if and when we can get out.
While Baby and I exist in limbo within the Special Care Unit, life continues on as normal outside the hospital’s confines. I speak with Eamonn about how I’m doing, a week after giving birth. I’ve healed remarkably well, all things considered. He says he’ll put a training timetable together for me to start once Baby and I are discharged. And though it seems premature, the thought of training again gives me something to focus on instead of bilirubin, which is all I seem to think of and speak about these days.
Friday arrives, eleven days since Baby’s induced appearance. If we don’t get out today, we’ll be stuck here for the entire weekend. And though the doctors and nurses have been wonderful and have provided incredible medical attention, I can’t help missing home and wanting my own food and bed.
When I see the doctors doing their rounds, I nearly tackle them to the ground to find out Baby’s bilirubin result. Fortunately, they see my anxiety and come to Baby’s bedside first.
‘Well, the good news is that your baby’s bilirubin levels have stabilised,’ the lead consultant says. I look down at my poor baby in his cot, his hands and feet covered in red dots from where they’ve inserted microscopic needles on a daily basis. ‘However, they’ve not dropped as much as we would have liked.’
My throat thickens. I blink hard. I fight back an angry tear.
‘We do think he’s on the right trajectory,’ the consultant continues, ignoring my inner turmoil. ‘If you agree to bring your baby back to the hospital next week for some additional tests, we’re okay to discharge him today.’
I can’t hold back the floodgates any more. I start to sob uncontrollably. My baby blues hit just when I get the best news I’ve heard all week.
The doctor smiles sympathetically and waits for me to calm down.
‘You might be interested to know we went back and tested the bloods from your first child,’ she says. ‘It seems like his jaundice was caused by antibodies as well, so you must have developed them during your first pregnancy.’
With that mystery solved, I call Pete and ask him to collect Baby and I from the hospital at lunchtime.
After two weeks of uninterrupted observation, I feel I know Baby pretty well. And given that he needs a birth certificate, and hence a name, Pete and I resolve to come to some sort of agreement. After much deliberation, we settle on the name Cahal, an old traditional Gaelic name that means valiant warrior. It seems pretty descriptive of his life to date. Plus, Cahal is easy to say and spell, and marks the child out as Irish. It fits the bill perfectly.
Aran, our independent two-year-old, decides, however, to totally ignore our well-thought-out name choice. His brother has thus far been known as Baby, and that’s what Aran insists on calling him.
As soon as I get home, I finally get to enjoy the fact that I am no longer pregnant. And with zero pressure to produce any more children, I can get down to business and try to get my body back in shape again. Eamonn’s plan clicks into action, and I have ten minutes of strength and conditioning exercises to do on my first day of freedom. It is all very short and sedate, but I have to take things slowly seeing that I’ve no idea how my post-natal body will cope under this unusual stress. The next day I have a thirty-minute walk to do, with short little jogs in the middle. Though I’m dubious about my ability to run, the session proves easier than expected. Eamonn gradually increases the intensity week by week, but he keeps me away from Bike until four weeks after the birth. Unlike after Aran, when I got back on after a fortnight, my coach prefers to make sure my hips aren’t an issue before allowing me to get back into the saddle.
While I am preoccupied with nursing Baby and getting fit again, there are bigger issues to deal with in our household. Pete has been offered a job in Myanmar, the country formerly known as Burma, setting up a new microfinance venture. He is wondering if he should take the position, and if we would move with him.
‘I think we need to think bigger picture than this,’ I say, trying not to betray my true feelings that I’ve no desire whatsoever to move back to South East Asia. I like living in Ireland, and want to stay right here for the foreseeable future. ‘Like, where do you want the children
to grow up?’ I ask my wanderlust husband. ‘Where do you want them to go to school?’
I can’t believe I’m asking such things. I was the one who never wanted kids in the first place and now, here am I, wanting to plan our entire lives around them.
‘I am sure there are international schools in Burma,’ Pete says. ‘And we could always get a nanny, like we had during our Cambodia trip.’
‘You know I’d feel inadequate if I got full-time help,’ I say, already feeling guilty about this hang-up. ‘And if you are working in a start-up venture, you’ll never be home to see your own children.’
Pete can get very focused on his job and will work long hours to succeed, just like he did in Greystones. Though this was understandable when we didn’t have young children, I feel our focus needs to shift towards what is best for Aran and Cahal.
‘But being overseas will expose them to different cultures and places,’ Pete says. ‘They could even learn Chinese.’
‘They can travel over the summer holidays,’ I retort. ‘And they can learn languages here in Ireland.’
We go back and forth over the issues, both of us presenting valid points. It is only when Pete goes on a scoping mission to Burma that he realises how hot the weather is there, how expensive expat costs are, and how bad traffic is in Yangon. These three things are enough to swing the argument my way.
I feel, however, we need to make a final, clear-cut decision on where we are going to live. If not, Pete will continue to throw overseas curveballs at me whenever he gets offered another exciting job in an exotic far-flung location.
‘If we were to be based in Ireland, where do you think we should live?’ Pete says when he returns from yet another overseas assignment. He must have had a draining, disappointing trip if he is even posing this question. I am relieved though to hear him bring the subject up. We need to talk these things through so we can come to some sort of resolution.
Though Pete has no problem flying for days across the globe, he has struggled with the commute from Derry to Dublin, a four-hour, one-way journey. It means he has to overnight in the capital on a regular basis for at least two or three nights a week.
‘Well, if I’m going to move again,’ I say, ‘we have to go some place mountainous.’ The lack of altitude was one of the main reasons I begged to leave Cambodia and its never-endingly flat paddy-field land.
‘We tried Wicklow, with all its mountains, and that didn’t work,’ Pete points out. ‘I also struggled with the commute to Dublin from Greystones, which is only just down the road.’
‘Why don’t we head towards the Mourne Mountains?’ I say, chancing my luck. The Mournes are on the eastern side of Ireland, equidistant between Dublin and Belfast in terms of travel time. They are also halfway between Waterford and Derry, where our respective parents live.
Regardless of their location, the Mournes are my favourite set of mountains. I have spent many a happy day running around their jagged peaks and scaling their dizzy heights. Once we stayed for a weekend in a place on the southern side of the Mournes called Rostrevor, overlooking Carlingford Lough and the Cooley Mountains. The place is a mountain biker’s mecca, as well a friendly village with lots of restaurants and pubs. Even Pete seemed to like Rostrevor when we visited. I’m hoping he’d like to live there as well.
Pete says nothing for a while. I am hoping this is a good sign.
‘We could rent a furnished holiday cottage for a couple of months, and see if we like the place,’ Pete says. Typically, he is reluctant to commit long-term but seems open to at least checking the place out.
‘We could see if the boys like the area,’ I say. ‘And if it’s a good place for them to grow up.’
‘And I’ll see what the commute is like to Dublin,’ Pete says. ‘And whether I can work from home.’
Yes! It looks like I’m on a winning streak.
With this short-term plan in place, we complete Cahal’s schedule of hospital checks until he’s given a clean bill of health. We then move to Rostrevor when Cahal is still only a few months old. If we are going to live in Rostrevor, we want to find out as soon as possible if it will suit our nascent family.
The first thing I do when we arrive is look for some decent childcare. I need someone to look after the kids for a couple of hours each day so that I can fit my training in. When I just had Aran to mind, three times a week in a crèche was plenty. I could easily train together with Aran on the other days. However, I soon discover that minding two young children while trying to train is practically impossible.
I try turbo training with Aran and Cahal both in the same room. I manage to get Aran to stay quiet by plonking him in front of the TV. But the sound of Paw Patrol soon wakes Cahal up, forcing me to dismount Bike to calm Baby. Once Cahal is finally asleep, Aran gets bored of watching Paw Patrol repeats. He comes over to my rollers, which are spinning at high speed, and tries to play with them. I have to get off Bike for safety reasons, and end up abandoning the entire session.
I then consider buying a double-stroller so that I can instead run with both of them, but I fail to find any paths or trails wide enough to accommodate such a vehicle.
Faced with such difficulties, I search for someone to look after both kids five times a week. I’m embarrassed to need so much support, but I find I need a little break from the children every day so I don’t totally crack up.
If I found looking after just one child hard, two proves overwhelming. It turns out that, if one is happy, the other is kicking and screaming. Once I’ve successfully soothed one, the other seems to kick off on cue. I come close to having a nervous breakdown whenever both of them flip out simultaneously, a scene that seems to occur with amazing regularity.
Fortunately, a local Rostrevor lady, Julie McGinn, comes to my aid. She looks after primary-school children before and after school, so is free every morning to look after my two in her home. I bring Aran and Cahal along on their first day in Rostrevor to meet their potential minder.
Aran is so used to childcare that he tears away from me within seconds and runs straight into Julie’s sitting room. Her home is brimming with colourful games and toys, which Aran starts to play with straight away. Immediately I apologise for the mess he’s making, as he upends boxes and clears entire shelves.
‘Oh God, don’t worry about that at all,’ Julie says. ‘I’m well used to it by now.’ Julie is younger than me and seems very chill around children. If I had random kids tearing my home apart, I’m not sure I’d be as relaxed as her.
I take the time to explain to Julie where Aran is developmentally. Though he is sturdy on his feet, he seems to be all walk and no talk these days. His vocabulary is still limited for a child who’s just turned two.
Julie assures me that every child is different; that the vast majority catch up before starting school. It is good to know that someone experienced like Julie is going to keep an eye on Aran. As a first-time mum watching her eldest grow, I don’t know if Aran is completely normal or if his speech issues are something that should raise concern.
‘And this is Cahal,’ I say, presenting my two-month-old baby. ‘He wears cloth nappies and is breastfed,’ I explain, almost apologetically. ‘I’ll only leave him with you for a max of two hours anyway, so you shouldn’t need to change or feed him.’
I know cloth nappies are still an enigma for many, and I’m dreading a repeat of Aran’s bottle-feeding protest. Aran’s refusal was hellacious for anyone who looked after him, up until the time he started eating solid foods at six months old.
‘Sure, that’s no problem changing cloth nappies, as long as you show me how,’ Julie says. ‘And you can leave a bottle with breast milk in it, and we’ll see if Cahal takes it.’
I feel so relieved. I don’t know how anyone can mind my baby with all these added idiosyncrasies, but Julie seems remarkably calm about it all. In Julie’s care, within days, Cahal drinks from a bottle no problem. Maybe, in some regards, second time round can be easier, and I needn’t have wo
rried at all.
In the afternoons, the kids and I start to explore the neighbourhood. We discover the expansive grasslands of Rostrevor’s Kilbroney Park, where Aran can run freely around. We wander up and down the banks of Yellow River, into which Aran chucks thousands of stones. Aran also takes to his balance bike and hits the mountain bike trails. It means I can carry Cahal and walk Tom in the forest, while Aran speeds along on his own two wheels.
We drive further afield to Castlewellan Forest Park, home to Northern Ireland’s stunning national arboretum, a mere thirty-minute journey from Rostrevor. At the heart of the park is an expansive lake, overlooked by a formidable Victorian Castle. Twenty-seven kilometres of mountain bike trails wind their way through the park’s woods. And at the trails’ entrance, Aran discovers a mini jump track.
Aran does lap after lap on the track, competing against older kids who struggle to pedal up and over the bumps. When he tires of his bike, Aran runs off towards the Animal Wood playground. Deep in the forest, there are carved animals for him to clamber over, a scary spider spinning a gigantic web; a cautious badger emerging from its lair; and a red squirrel protecting his high-up den. It is a veritable outdoor paradise for a youngster like Aran.
When we tire of outdoor play, we retreat to the seaside town of Newcastle. There, Aran drinks mugs of sweet hot chocolate and I indulge in coffee and cake in one of the many cafes on the promenade. Cahal too seems happy enough as he sleeps soundly on my lap. Maybe Rostrevor and its surroundings will suit us, a young family starting to grow up.
21
Fit
Aran loves living in Rostrevor, with its veritable paradise of parks, forests, and playgrounds. I too need to discover whether this place can become my new home.
Two months have passed since I gave birth to Cahal, and I am faced with the uphill task of getting fit again. When I first gave birth to Aran, I had no idea whether this was even feasible. I doubted if I would ever shift the weight I had gained during pregnancy. I didn’t know if my post-natal body would get injured while training. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to juggle babysitting with biking and running. Second time round, I have the advantage of knowing everything will be fine, that it is indeed possible to get race-ready again.
Bump, Bike & Baby Page 22