The Flaws of Paradise

We have been living in our new home for three months now, and we love it every bit as much as we thought we would.

Kid n°1, with no uses of a garden and despite our best endeavour to turn him as an outdoor kid, spend the first 2 1/2 years of his life trying to levitate rather than risking touching the grass barefoot. Two days after we had moved in, he was running in the garden not only sans shoes but in the rain. That in itself probably justifies the lifetime mortgage. As for Kid n°2, she is lucky enough she will not need to know the meaning of the word "apartment" for the years to come. 

Another reason for buying a house was that we thought it would be easier to invite scattered friends and family without having them stay squeeze in the office-cum-laundry-cum-ancillary-library-cum-fitness-room-cum-bedroom-for- baby-n°2 and accommodate them in a proper guest-room instead. This has worked beyond our wildest dream, since it has barely been a week without any visits since we moved in, and we may soon need to ask for advance booking. 

Talking about fitness room, we are now the proud owners of a mazot. Mazots are little wooden huts located in the main house’s garden, where people used to store the household's valuables in the event of a fire on the main house. Well, our mazot will definitely carry on serving its initial purpose since we intend, as soon as we have some spare time (famous last words) to refurbish it and house in there our dearest valuables: turbo trainers, bikes, weights and yoga mats and use it as our in-house fitness centre. 

There is no rush though, since the main selling point for our new home, especially that time of the year, is this:

A (beautiful, can I say it again) mountain, steep single trails, direct access to said trails from home. In other words, the perfect training camp literally on our door step. 

If you're fit. 

Because nothing, I repeat, nothing around here is flat. Not a single metre of trail. And this is tough when motivation is high but stamina inexistent, the result of several months of flat pregnant running followed by a couple of months of running-less post-partum (me) or weekends spent working in the house (husband). 

Initially, it was not all that bad. As I started running again, I was only allowed ridiculously short runs, and had managed to design a loop doing figures of eight in the fields which did not involved climbing Mt Blanc twice elevation-wise. It is now that I have been able to increase speed and distance than the issue has risen, since any hour-long run around here involves at least 700 vertical metres of climbing.

I guess the answer is: get fit. FAST.

Then, as I discovered, paradise can also be scary. Why, because every house or farm I run past seem to have at least one big, bad, barking dog which has waited all day that I pass by to start running after me with an unmistakable interest for my calves. Did I tell you I was s***-scared of dogs?  

I then decided the way to go was to go away from the fields and houses and in the forest on the hills. So far, the route I am doing on my hourly evening runs involves some steep, stony trails as well as a stretch of single trail snaking amongst brambles and high grasses. 

In other words, the perfect place for runs, and for snakes, and for me to walk on said snakes. And did I also tell you I was s***-scared of snakes? And here you start thinking that it is a bit rich of me to make fun of Kid n°1 for not being outdoorsy enough, and you'll be right: I am a sissie.

As if my fight against wildlife would be stopping when I by miracle come back alive from my runs. But it isn't so: we also fighting a hopeless battle in our own garden against moles and field mice. Our garden is in a state which reminds of the most vivid descriptions of WWI battle of Verdun. I spend every morning trying to fight molehills and mice’s holes, flatten the former out and fill the later with soil from the former (knowing they'll both be back minutes later), filled with a rage that will soon make me lose all credibility when telling my kids violence is never the way.

Three months here and I have found the secret: paradise is only for the Fit, the Fearless and the Fighter. For the others, there's purgatory first, paved with steep hills, barking dogs, biting snakes and omnipresent moles. The good news is, I think I can deal with purgatory for a few years.

Same Same but Different

"Same, same, but different", often say the Thais in their colourful English (says the girl who does not pretend for a single second her own mastering of the English language is perfect).

Same same but different is a bit how I feel when comparing Malo's and Mieje's births and,the first months of their life.

The birth - Same, same...
Meije announced herself in ways which made me think "well, well, well, that feels familiar", followed by "it seems that, this time again, I won't be doing things in the "right" order".  As for her brother, the sequence of events went like this :

1. waters broke in the middle of the night, long before I could start feeling the slightest contractions.

2. no pain whatsoever, but heading off to hospital because that's what you do when said waters break.

3. Pretty much no dilatation for days. OK, hours, in fact. But trust me, hours feel damn long when it's the middle of the night, you're lying on the uncomfortable bed ever, you have no idea how long you're here for, it is boiling, you cannot open the window because some medical staff are smoking right below your window. I mean, come on, this is a hospital, this is even the bloody (ah ah) maternity ward, the nurse has just performed a test to check your exposure to tobacco, and, although you have sworn you don't smoke, never did, has lectured you 'tobacco-is-evil' style, and medical staff is smoking less than 3 metres from you and the baby you're about to give birth to? This must be a joke. (End of rant)

However I knew better this time than thinking "oh joy, I am about to give birth and it is not even remotely painful", because, from (admittedly limited) previous experience, no labour pain = no good news. First time round, from the moment we reached the hospital, everything that could go wrong did - not dilating fast enough, not contracting regularly enough, baby not dealing well at all with whatever contractions I had - to the big finale, a pretty traumatic emergency C-section.

... But different?

There was however no reason to panic, since, this time, there would be no room for uncertainty. A C-section had been planned for the following week, since Meije was still high, and my pelvis "not the size of a cathedral". It would then just be done a week earlier than planned, right?

Wrong.

Quite the same same old story, actually...

I thought I had, this time, everything under control, which, if you know me, was a huge relief. OK, a C-section was not the dream birth, but at least, this one was planned, so there would be no drama (just a little fear, getting bigger as the date was getting closer, about the anaesthetics and that, this time round, the days post c-section may be quite painful). Everything under control then... except that the on-call ob-gyn was on a mission as soon as she saw me, decided as she was to convince me I may be able to give birth naturally and should at least give it a try.  Hence a huge dilemma : a c-section, no unknown, but the certainty I would never know what it is like to give birth naturally, something I had wanted so badly for Malo. Or deciding to give natural birth a go, to the risk of ending up, many hours later, which could be hours living with intense fear for my baby, with a c-section anyway.  Bottom line is, once again, things were not at all happening the way I thought they would.  Will that teach me a lesson and help me not always being the quintessential control freak? I guess not.

... although with a different - Thank God - ending
In the end, Meije's birth was different from Malo in that she finally was born naturally, some 22 hours after we had arrived to the hospital, she handled the birthing process like a rock star and I was beaming, as I was holding my little girl on the belly after a pretty long expulsion (what an ugly term to describe a baby coming to the world. I mean, I was not always a happy pregnant chick and quite pleased my girl decided to show up almost three weeks early, but still, couldn't we use a term which sounds less like we're getting rid of some illegal immigrant?).  I tell you, having this little bloody, sticky, screaming thing lying on you minutes after she was in your belly beats being taken away in the recovery room, knowing your baby is alone in an ugly plastic box, anytime.

As for the rest...

Apart from their birth story, Malo and Meije have a lot in common. They both made most people wonder how their diminutive mom had managed to give birth to two pretty big babies. Some - including the ob-gyn, even asked how I had hidden it so well, but here, I would beg to differ. I mean, haven't they seen that huge belly of mine in the weeks before giving birth? Don't they think I looked enough like a whale as it was?). So far, they have also both been two rather easy-going babies : Malo started sleeping through the night aged five weeks, Meije aged 8 weeks (I still consider myself more than happy with that, and I am sure most moms would agree I should!), they both seem to find Maman's milk to their taste, having gained 2 kgs in the first two months of their lives. And if Meije has been beaten by her big brother by a couple of weeks on the "sleeping through the night" front, she was ahead by two months when it came to find her thumb and soothing herself with it : she found that miracle device of hers aged two months, which prompted the nurse to say babies usually did not do so before they were three months old, and me to feel very proud... although I may come to regret this later, when we'll start getting bills from the orthodontist.

To end this "same, same but different" account, I should mention the biggest difference of them all, which has actually more to do with me than with my offsrpings : post-partum running.

Hold on with me for a few minutes while I cry my head off.

OK, I am back.

Post-partum absence of running, should I have said. Unless you count 2 min running - 1 min walking, this for 40 min at the most, as proper running, which I surely do not.

That's my little ones being taken for... a walk. Yes, a walk. Not a run, not even a job. A walk.

Why that is so is for another post (and, maybe, I will manage to write that one without waiting another two months), but lets say the "natural birth" and "pretty long explusion" mentioned earlier explain most of it. Does the above mentioned little, bloody, sticky, screaming thing on my belly makes up for it? Sure it does. Kind of. But if I could have both the natural birth and the back-to-running-straight-after-birth, I would take it, anytime. I guess that's what the midwife calls my "Little house on the prairie" tendencies (what, we cannot be living in a perfect world where everybody is nice, things always end for the best... and I am running as much as I want? Sigh...).  Quest for perfection on earth... no doubt that trait of mine is one that will for ever be found in the "same same" category.

Is That It (hopefully not)?

Unlike the previous post, I am now talking about delivering.

And unlike the previous post (and how I would have felt last time round at the same stage of pregnancy, or even 3 days ago, or probably two days from now), I am in no rush of getting this baby out.

I have been "single" since Friday night. March has always meant, since Martin and I met, a week of skiing at my parents' in the French Southern Alps. This year, with only a couple of weeks before my due date, call me chicken, but I did not feel like potentially finding myself giving birth on the roadside driving up The Lautaret Pass, no matter how stunning the view. Yes, I know, you expected better from a mountain lover and Tour de France fan, but here you go. On the other hand, I did not feel either like depriving Martin and Malo from some spring skiing and time with the family, so it was decided some time ago they would go there for three days while I would stay home.

Pregnant with Malo, when absolutely no signs were given until the day my water broke that I was close to D Day (OK, the size of my belly might have given a clue), I would not have thought twice about Martin going away and my carrying on with my life, ie walking, hiking, running and swimming everyday.

This time round though, things are a bit different. I have plenty of signs - which I won't list since this could become a bit too graphic and personal for my taste - that this baby could now come anytime... as was confirmed by an unexpected visit to the midwife last Friday! With Martin there, that would be very good news indeed, but with him away, I'd rather the baby does not show up too early!

We discussed whether we should cancel the trip, but in the end decided not to, since he would be "only" three hours away. The midwife advised me against doing too much if I wanted to limit the risk of getting into labour earlier (although to be fair she also said that resting and relaxing could help start labour , too!) and for the first time since pregnant, I felt I may listen and do just what I was told. So, instead of using my "single" status to do fill those three days with walks, swims, maybe even an attempt at running again, I have been doing pretty much nothing counting as physical activity, bar a short swim yesterday (on second attempt... just walked back home at the first one, having been on my way for minutes only, as I suddenly freaked out my water was about to break). I am definitely catching up on my reading and sleeping, though!

It is funny that, whereas I have always been confident I knew what amount of exercise was OK for me and it always seemed obvious I just knew what my pregnant body could do, this time, I just feel like I don't know what can happen. But then again, it is not about doing something hurtful for the baby, it is about not being too keen on potentially having to wake up our neighbour in the middle of the night (no matter what she said about being perfectly fine with it), have my water break in her brand new car, and have to worry about Martin not driving back too fast in between suffering hell from the contractions.

I am not sure what's going to happen after Martin is back. Last time round, I would have been pretty happy to list all these signs indicating that, maybe, the baby would turn up a bit earlier than expected. But this time, well, I am not sure. Unlike last time when all I wanted was an all-natural birth, this time I actually feel quite comfortable with the idea of a planned C-section, as it feels I am not in unknown territory and have some kind of control on the situation :  know the doctor - check -, know what to expect post birth - check -, feel that although it is a surgical procedure, and I am definitely less fit and rested than for Malo, I can handle the post-surgery reasonably well... On the other hand, this baby coming early may mean having a go at a VBAC, but may also mean not having the kind of "natural" birth I would chose to call "natural" (I mean, is a peridural and not being able to move during labor that natural and conductive of a successful birth? I am really not sure), and one which may in any case end up with a C-section performed by an ob-gyn I have not chosen. And Big Bear may not have been be the most diplomatic and warmest person on the planet on our first encounter, I came to trust him and I'd rather he delivers my baby rather than an unknown guy, again.

With all this in mind, I am trying to do things which are quite unlike me : 

- try not to stress about this weekend and the baby arriving in a rather untimely manner... not easy when waken up by contractions in the middle of the night, like last night.

- try to convince myself that now is the time to forget about being in control, and that, should the baby arrive earlier than the day planned for the c-section, it was because it was meant to be. 

- try not to stress out about not exercising and the no-doubt huge detrimental effect it will have on my post-partum recovery pace.

Looking on the positive side of life tough, one thing I am definitely not even contemplating this weekend, despite having lots of free time on my hands, is nesting... Looks like this is something which will stay forever foreign to me... pregnancy will have not managed to take control over all my life and self, in the end...  

Is That It?

And no, I am not talking about being about to give birth (or at least, I don't think so at this very minute).

What I am talking about is the question whether my going "running" (I am using the term loosely, "jogging" or "plodding" may be more appropriate) has come to an end for this pregnancy. Running, and, who knows, maybe any kind of sport, bar, maybe, swimming?

For the last 9 days, I have had really sharp pain in the pelvic area whenever I am standing, walking, or lying. And if you read and think "well, that's pretty much always, then", you'll be right. That pain feels like a powerful electrical shock is going through my pelvis, and it last for hours whenever it starts. My "sport" of last weekend consisted of a (fast) out- (and excruciatingly slow) back 1h45 walk towards the lake, most of which spent crying because it was so painful. I knew it was not the kind of pain to nothing to worry about,so I kept on walking until we got back

Malo having a snack by the lake before heading back, his mum looking a bit like she is faking her smile.

To make up for the lack of running and walking, I have been  doing a bit of cross training (at last), limited to swimming, since I don't have a gym membership any longer (I am not yet over the fact that is more expensive to get one here than in London, a super expensive city, of all places) but the limited ridiculous opening times of the pool means I have not been able to get anything done anything since my great Saturday walk. 

A visit to the OB on Monday confirmed what I thought : the baby has come down, and is pressing against probably a nerve, or ligaments, or both (just to make sure it does hurt). This would be good news, except that, as a C-section has also eventually been scheduled on that same appointment, the coming-down and the associated pain seem a bit on the useless side.

When pregnant with Malo, I experienced back pain, but that was it. And this time round, apart from very slight nausea which never came back after a visit to the magician my acupuncture therapist, I had no pain whatsoever, and not even a slight discomfort when running. Now, I can hear those of you who suffered from morning sickness, swollen ankles, back pain, contractions since the 5th month, or worse, threats of premature labor or those condemned to bed rest : what am I complaining about, when everything has been so easy until I am into my 8th month? Yes, I can see you read this and laugh your head off. Or sneer. , Well, you may. It does not entirely take the frustration away though. Call me self-centered too.

No need to say I am starting to feel a bit restless. I try to deal with my impatience by resting ahead of the C-section, and reading. Not 100% sure though that my choice of book, Chrissie Wellington's autobiography, following Angela's review, may not be - oh ever so slightly - in my "condition", on the masochist side.

My Funny Valentine

I usually could not care less about very much dislike commercial crap such as Valentine's Day. This year though, I managed to land myself a hot date.

Well, maybe not so hot unless you're into the Eastern-Europe-mafia-hit-men-walking-like-big-brown-bears type.

And maybe not so much of a date either unless you consider an 8mth pregnancy visit to an Ob-Gyn like a date.

My relationship with my ob-gyn started the day of Malo's birth. Until then, I had no ob-gyns . I had seen one at the start of my pregnancy, had liked what she had said (read "yes, you can run as long as you feel comfortable about it... which is what I wanted to hear, and what I thought was sensible, but which is definitely not what your average ob-gyn would say here), then proceeded not to see her ever again since everything was going super well and I'd rather have my monthly appointment with the midwife.

Fast rewind 2.5 years. On the day Malo will end up making it into this world, I turn up at the hospital, feeling pretty cheerful. What, are those the extremely painful contractions I am supposed to experience, especially as my waters have broken? It looks like I am going to be one of these exceptions who don't experience pain during labour, which is fine by me (I want a natural, drug-free birth, but if this does not involve intense pain, all the better, I am not that much of a masochist).

Two hours later, a guy enters the room. He does not say hello, nor does he introduce himself, so I decide that he must be some guy emptying the bin or something similar. Then he checks the monitoring. Oh, wrong, he's not the cleaning guy, he's the on-call ob-gyn. In any case, he clearly does not think that, as the woman giving birth, I am anybody important in the room, since he is totally ignoring me.

Then, having once again checked the monitoring, and still not looking at me but rather opening slightly the bathroom's door and poking his head in, he says, before barking at the midwife and leaving the room :  "that we don't like".

We will not see Mr Big Brown Bear for another couple of hours, during which it has become quite clear that, pain or no pain, things are not as rosy as we would like them to be. Bottom line is, as we find out after a lot of questioning, Malo's heart is not dealing well at all with the contractions. By the time his heart beat gets as low as 50-something bpm, we expect our son to be dying any minute, and, when Big Brown Bear, called in by the midwife, decides that this is it, it is either an emergency C-section or Malo may not make it, I am well past the "natural versus assisted birth" question, and just want to know my baby will be out soon. And alive.

Back to today. In the space of these 2.5 years, I got to know Big Brown Bear a bit better. Or enough at least to realise that, although his manners may be a bit on the rough side, and his biggest strength is definitely not his inter-personal skills (I just wish I knew this on Malo's birth day, instead of mistaking him for a non-French speaking cleaning person), he's a very competent guy, one of the best ob-gyn the hospital has, and he'll do what's best for the baby and for me.

I must now even admit to a certain liking of his rather -shall we say... dry? - sense of humour :

- "Do you want to know the sex of the baby", he asked on the day of Baby #2's second ultrasound.

I replied I did.

-" You've clearly not be advised I am not divulging this information any longer", he then said... then proceeded to the entire U/S without telling us what he had clearly seen the minute he started to check what was inside my belly.

For this second pregnancy, I have not seen Big Brown Bear much more often that I did see a ob-gyn the first time round, at least since we found out that the biologist's news that the baby was not viable was just rubbish. What has changed though is that this is pregnancy #2, and that, with an history of C-section, I am now part of the sought-after "risky pregnancies"club.

Hence my Valentine's date with Big Brown Bear, during which we did not dissert too much about the good old days of our first meeting, but more of the odds of me having a natural birth this time. And the odds are not super high, is the outcome of our "date".  The baby is high, the baby is big (and there is still some weeks to go!), and my pelvis not so much. 

What would have been terrible news to me 2.5 years ago is actually now OK. I came to realise that no matter how I give birth, I will love the little girl, the same way I did with Malo. Sure, if a C-section it has to be, I will miss immensely not having my baby against my skin the moment she's out. But on the other hand, I could do with not having to re-live, even if only in imagination, the horrible fears that ended up summarising Malo's birth. Oh, and if she continues growing and ended up getting anywhere close (or even not that close, come to think of it) to her dad's weight at birth (4.650kgs - 10.2lbs ladies! Respect to my mother-in-law is all I have to say), I think I'd rather not even try to get her out the "normal" way.

So following my hot date, I have been considering C-section as a very tangible prospect, and unlike 2.5 years ago, not a very scary one. And at least one thing would not change, should the prospect materialise. As I gave birth to Malo at the end of August, a month which sees about 99% of France's population taking their vacation, I had to deal with the slightly unreal experience of having to listen to the Ob-Gyn telling the nurse about his holiday (and complaining about the scorching heat... well, guy, just try again with a belly the size of a hot air balloon next time, and I swear you won't complain ever again), all the while stitching my uterus back together.

Guess what, this time round, should we need to plan a C-section, this will have to wait until full term minus10 days, because he'll be on holiday again. And unless "Petite soeur" decides to come and check out the world earlier, it therefore means I'd better get ready for some incredibly frustrating accounts of ski-touring trips in spring snow then.

And that's all fine by me, if this ends up being the toughest part of that day.

Nothing to wear

I am lucky enough, thanks to running mainly, to have now, at 38, more of a teenager body than when I was a teenager (how's that for a catch line which may have me hated from half of the female population... although, if I am lucky maybe not half of the one reading running blogs since a lot of them will be in the same situation).

I also don't seem to be able to throw much away (everything I did throw away, on account of the fact I had not worn them for years and they had gone out of fashion 10 years earlier, were, of course, the thing to wear less than a month after they had been given to charity).

And, last but not least, I used to be a real girl when it came to clothes (that was before I started to think my money was better spent on sport kit, before I had a kid, and before I had no money to waste). 

Having nothing to wear was therefore, in all honesty, never a real problem (although on occasion I may still vehemently argue right the opposite, especially when late to get ready for a night out with Martin).

Until now.

Now that I am 33 weeks pregnant.

I am not talking about everyday clothes. Right now, I have two pairs of pregnancy jeans, a pair of leggings and a skirt which I bought at H&M when pregnant with Malo, cost 9.99€, is not even from their pregnancy line and is just fine. I am still wearing my "non-pregnant" sweaters, which have become very figure-hugging to say the least but still do the job (although I may come to regret having done this when I am back to my normal self and I realise that the said sweaters have lost their shape to the point of only being good at mopping the floor).  All this is more than enough for taking Malo to daycare, buying groceries and working from home.

No, what I am talking about here is sports clothes. There it looks like I have reached the point of no-return.

When pregnant with Malo, finding a sports outfit which would allow me to stay comfy and decent up to day 266 of pregnancy (turned out I "only" had to deal with 262, but that's another topic) was reasonably easy. (As an aside, I did not get my math wrong : just remember those of us lucky enough to be pregnant in France have to deal with not 40, but 41 weeks of pregnancy... doesn't it make heroes of us?). As I reached whale-stage in the heat of summer, I stole some of Martin's cycling lycras in which to fit my ever-expanding belly for spinning. And, when it came to hiking, running and swimming, I only needed a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and a pregnancy swimsuit, just like those : 

Me in sports attire, 3 days before Malo was born and setting off for some "white water rafting" (!)

This time round, I am not only reaching third trimestre in the midst of winter, but, am I being unlucky, in the midst of the coldest winter Europe has experienced in decades. And my belly is 5cms bigger as it used to be at the same stage of being pregnant with Malo (and yes again, I do keep stats).

Thinking about the positives (second time in the space of two posts... I should make sure this is not becoming a habit), that spares regrets for having splashed out on my only proper pregnancy sports clothes investment, a pair of pregnancy fleece running tights. (On another side note, would you believe those had to be ordered from the US, since it is just impossible to find proper pregnancy running clothes in Europe. And it does not even mean there is a market here to explore, since there are no pregnant runners around. Shame). These running tights may be the most unflattering piece of sports gear I have ever owned (which obviously mean I would not dream of posting a photo even if I was paid for it), they're still saving my life right now.

Apart from these running tights, I could, until now, manage with "normal" clothes. Shoes and socks are not an issue. Technical first layers and fleece were getting a bit of the short side, but the ugly pregnancy running tights getting over my belly made up for it. I was thankful for the stretch fabric on each side of my fleece vest, which meant I could still zip it up. And for the first time, I was happy Mizuno's size XS is so ridiculously large, since it meant I could also still wear and zip my rain jacket.

This week has, however, sadly marked a milestone, which will be remembered as the "I have officially nothing to wear anymore" week. Following last Sunday's run and related "getting dressed" attempts, I had to bent my principle of not buying anything pregnancy related with only two months to go, and hit Decathlon, where, at least, I was able to get a fleece and a fleece vest for a price not too close to daylight robbery. And when, today, I managed to find 45 min for a run some time outside, it became obvious, as I was getting ready, that this was probably the last time the XS rain jacket would be used until back to non-pregnant status. I am therefore now faced with only two options : 1. steal Martin's (that's going to become a common theme here) rain jacket, which, being bright red, will make me look even more like Santa than a few weeks ago. Or 2. freeze to dead. I guess I'll settle for # 1., eventually.

Snow shoeing attire is also going to be an issue. Again, those fleece pants will no doubt save my life, or at least my legs, but what about the rest of my very pregnant body? My - very warm - down jacket still fits (how long for?) but, as I am carrying my own portable central heating 24/7 these days, is far too warm for steep (or not so steep) uphill snow shoeing. And my only alternative will no doubt burst at the seams anytime soon. And no, I won't borrow Martin's, since snow shoeing with a jacket the length of my regular coats is not an option.

Definitely reaching a dead end here. 

As for the buff I have been wearing over the past few weeks as a comfy way to hold my belly, and which Malo calls my "zupe", my skirt, it will soon be a skirt... 

... for Malo only...

A good mix

Looking at the recent downhill skiing results results at the Kandahar and the nationalities represented on the podim - first Romed Baumann, Austrian, second Alexis Pinturault, French - I started having dreams of a brilliant skiing career for Malo (OK, this is a big lie : there is no way,  I want sports to be anything but a game for Malo for now - if he llater wants to make something more serious of it, it'll be his choice, not mine. But I need an introduction, so did not mind the lie).

Good thing then that we took him for his first skiing experience just over a week ago (second one really, but he was standing on his dad's skis the first time round, do it does not really count).

Well, if he liked in in this weather, the chance is he will like it always. The fog grew thicker and thicker as we were driving there and to say the visibility was limited when we finally parked would be a massive understatement.

Mind you, at least, it was cold, but not too cold. Not -30°C cold like what we've been having since pretty much the day following our skiing trip (and this is France, not Canada, therefore -30°C for the best part of 2 weeks - and counting - is almost unheard of... 470 people have died in Europe because of the cold since it started). Goven that 1. if I had to chose one or the other to experience with skiing, I would go for the fog anytime and 2.I am the one chosing for Malo these days, it was just as well it was foggy but not artic-cold.

I guess Malo's parents were definitely as excited much, much more excited than the star of the day himself that he was at last on skis. I mean, at 2 years and 5 months, it was about time, wasn't it? I am just kidding here, but, mind you, checking the average age - three? three and a half at the most? - of the skiers on the runs, in this tiny "resort" (if 2 runs constitute a resort), you would be forgiven to think all the parents take their skiing pretty seriously here and want to make sure they have indeed fathered / mothered the next generation's Hermann Maier or Lindsay Vonn.

I sacrified myself by letting Martin start with Malo...

 

... then could not help it and after 2-3 "runs" (the bottom of them really... we did not even take the "magic carpet") asked to swap, which was only a partial success since Malo was in one of his "no, not Maman, Papa" days, by which he makes very clear he is not necessarily 100%- happy wityh the baby sister situation. 

Truth be told, the best part of the day, if you were to ask the key man, was without a doubt the biscuit-break that followed the skiing. 

As for me, well, the day was used as undeniable evidence that the toughest bit about skiing while 7-month pregnant is ... putting one's skiing boots on.

Keeping my cards close to my chest (or is it my baby?)

2.060kgs.

90th percentile in pretty much all areas.

TWO KILOS 60.
90TH PERCENTILE.

"Vous cachez bien votre jeu", you're keeping your cards close to your chest, the OB-GYN said last week, as I was in for my last ultrasound, having checked the baby and now looking at the whole 5'1 of me. 

Poker terms notwithstanding, I am not sure whether I am more proud or scared to seem to be able to produce big (for me, at least) babies. One one hand, it gives me comfort to think that, should she leave her indoor pool early, she'll be already reasonnably big and strong. Malo and now this little girl growing inside me and clearly enjoying their time there should also give me comfort than my body is not only good at running, it is good at populating the world, too. That should include giving birth, so no need to worry too much.

On the other hand, well...

1. the first pregnancy went super well only to end up in a totally unexpected emergency C-section does not necessarily support this evidence ;

2. I have reached the point where I find I am big enough as it is, and don't need another two months of the baby gaining another 2 or even 3 kgs (yes I know, that's me being a bit overdramatic here). The OB-GYN may think I don't look like I am carrying such a big baby for my size, but, I mean, has he really, really, looked at my belly? To me, it definitely already looks like a giant inflatable balloon, and one which is meant to keep inflating until early April. Difficult to imagine. And scary.

3. I am indeed 5'1 and less than 45kgs when not pregnant.  Not exactly 90th percentile, is it? And let's face it, I am rather unlikely to get much taller and bigger in between now and birth, so a big baby is not necessarily such a blessing, especially with a first C-Section under my belt (pun not intended) and a pelvimetry planned for next week.Of course, I could try and think positive (now, wouldn't that be a first?) and think that estimation of foetus' weight can easily be off by 10-15%, which would then take her back to where Malo was at the same stage of pregnancy. That, or... 10-15% higher than the 2.060kgs announced. Already 2.370kgs at only 31 weeks and 4 days? That, I don't even want to envisage.

But isn't the main reason for not wanting this baby to be too big, or at least not to be, at birth, bigger than Malo is this one : do we really need, in this family, one more reason for the two kids to querrel when they're older, along the lines of :

"Shut up, you're only a girl".

" That may be so, but I was heavier than you and I was born, so you shut up".

Well, I surely think not.

"Maman, cours"

"Maman, cours", run Maman, says Malo 10 days ago as we leave the flat for a Sunday evening run with the Chariot, and are power-walking on the pavement.

"Maman, cours", orders Malo again 15 minutes later, as we are by then... well, running, actually.

Then, last Sunday, on a similar outing, it happens again.

"Maman, cours".

"But I am running Malo", I try to argue, "I am just going slightly slower than usual because it is more difficult with Little Sister in my belly". 

"Non, Maman pas courir. Maintenant, Maman, cours". 

 

That's it then, there is no way to avoid 2 simple facts :

1. My son does not consider anything over 5min/km running pace.

2. I am by now truly running like a pregnant woman.

Although I am quite happy about fact #1 (surely that makes him a future, fast, runner in the making, does it?), I am not so sure about fact #2. Sure, I am running, and I am pregnant, but until recently, it had not - or at least I want to believe it had not - affected my training regimen so much.  However, the last few weeks have seen me ballooning (or so it feels) and I have had to resort to using the tricks that worked when pregnant with Malo, who was clearly more tolerant of them then than he is now.

So here is how a run goes, at almost 32 weeks :

- Walk at fast pace for 10-15 minutes. Now, this is quite something for somebody who usually tends to forget about the meaning of the word "warm up" and can start at pretty much the pace she will do her entire run at. But hey, if that helps avoiding contractions (and it does -  zero contractions when running this pregnancy), I am all for warming up.

- Run for 35-45 minutes. Now, this is were running time is more dependent on being either "only" super busy with work or super-super busy with work, and unfortunately, I cannot manage much longer most of the time.

- Pace had not dropped too much until recently, but as we all now know, if my watch had not told me I was now going more snail-like, Malo would have.

- I am running less frequently than I used to, pre-pregnancy but also compared to when pregnant with Malo, but the culprits are more work and the new house than Little Sister.  Maybe that's just me trying to put a positive spin on the frustration born from running less - if that is so, that's great, since I am not so good at putting a positive spin on anything these days - but that could well be a good thing, since I have so far avoided the back pains I experienced with Malo, and don't feel my belly at all when running (despite its more than honourable whale-like size by now).

Strangely enough (or maybe not so strangely when one knows how a runner's brain works and what it produces), I feel über tired ALL-THE-TIME, except... when I am running. I can spend hours wondering how to get through the day (and the night, thanks to insomnia and Malo having decided it is time to give us the sleepless nights we deserved but managed to avoid when he was a new-born), but feel a burst of energy as soon as I get out for a run.

So here we are. I have to face shame when running with my son and passing people who can hear him shouting clear and loud from the comfort of the Chariot that I am not fast enough. But I don't care. I am having fun. And I am just hoping the fun will last for the best part of the next two months, even it that means embarrassing my toddler or boring him to death by being too slow.

Snowed Under

Yes, we have been snowed under. Figuratively, but also literally. One is likely to last, although not necessarily the one I would have chosen, the other one is already something of the past, at least in town. 

My November runs (at least the weekend ones, when I have more time) went something like this : 

"Running" in the  Glières range at week 20.

Incidentally, this photo was taken at the end of my 20th week, and although I'd love to pretend running uphill felt like a walk in the park... well, it did not, and the rather steep uphill section involved a fair bit of fast walking, not to take any chances of the baby getting less oxygen that it'd like to.  This was mid-November, there was no snow forecast, and to be fair, this year, I was quite happy about it, since 1. it ies easier to fit in one hour of running than the few hours needed for a ski outing, 2. I had not planned my pregnant training regimen to include loads of skiing at this stage of pregnancy anyway.

Pretty much exactly a month later... and still no snow. By that time last year, Annecy itself was under the deep layer of snow, I was running at lunchtime with my Yaktrax, and had had my first cycling accident cycling to work from day care and sliding on black ice. This year... nothing, so a run up Mont Veyrier, overlooking Annecy and the lake, it would be.

The Annecy lake from 1400m on Dec 12, , and still  so snow

Nothing on the snow front, but, unlike snow, some things arrive when they are due, including a getting-rounder-and-rounder belly. 

The view on Annecy lake slightly obstructed by a week 24 belly

Then, then... One morning, as I woke up, "It" was there,eventually!

"It" being, luckily, the snow, not the baby : I may be happy if the baby is a few days early, but still some three months away from my due date, the baby is very welcome to stay warm and cozy inside.

I am not ecstatic about snow in the city this year round. Last year already, it meant no running in the city for 2-3 weeks, and this year, guess why, I feel more vulnerable. And since there are right now two things I want to avoid at all costs, namely falling on ice while running but also having to run on a treadmill (in fact, I think I'd rather not run than run on those machines. And anyway, due to new house and new job and therefore little extra cash, a gym membership is not on the agenda), I want to see asphalt rather than snow on my doorstep.

On that first weekend of snow, it was quite easy, however, to find a nice alternative to running without going too far away, and we settled for Mont Veyrier once again.

Up Mont Veyrier once again, although it does look like a different mountain this time round.

Same running tights,same headband, same backpack as a week earlier. A rounder belly. however... and more snow in my shoes, the result of being a pregnant chick with a brain in sleep-mode who forgets that, when planning to go snow shoeing in knee-high fresh powder, gaiters are a useful gadget.

An impressive storm a few days earlier had also provided some major obstacles for somebody who now struggles a bit with shoes lacing, and, as I found out during our hike, bending in half to get under fallen trees.

"Parkour"-like snowshoeing!

A week or so later, and we were off to the Southern Alps for some family Xmas holidays. No alpine skiing for me, although I had packed my gear, since the resort turns out to be full and the runs far too busy for comfort/safety.

Instead, it would be...

... running, dressed a bit like Santa, and having pushed perfectionnism to a new level with a belly a bit like his, too...

Note to myself : when pregnant, do not leave for run on hard snow trails full of potholes when night is about to fall

... Snowshoeing in the Ecrins range, a super workout when pregnant, not to mention an ego booster when easily overtaking the only other hikers on that itinerary, them panting, us not (my athletic performance not giving much risk of an over-inflated ego these days, I did indulge guilt-free on that one occasion)...

Under the glacier at Lac de la Douche

... and pushing up to the pass, some 250 - steep - metres than what was initially planned. We were greeted there by a bitterly cold wind, which I did not suffer from nearly as much as Martin, thanks to my additional "layer"... while, due to cumulated stress,  he's on the contrary recently lost 4 kgs that were certainly not extra.

Down from Col d'Arsine

And, last but not least, since I could not ski and somebody had to babysit, I had to take Malo sledging. I just love sledging, and must admit that, on our first attempt with Malo last year, the mum had much more fun than the 1 year old who was providing her with the excuse for indulging.

Sledging with Malo proved to be a bit of a disappointment though.

"moi tout seul, Maman"

Not that he did not like it. In fact, he liked it so much the week's motto rapidly became "moi tout seul".

So Malo on the sledge by himself it had to be, with Maman realising she had just relinquished one of her last chances for a bit of pregnant fun.

Like investment banking. Just worse.

It may have been a great experience but I don't look at my time in investment banking as the most stress-free and balanced time of my life. I can give you a pretty extensive list of all the positives about that job.  But truth be told, came a time when these positives could not any longer outweighs the minuses, the largest of which was how busy, running out of time and juggling with dozens of things simultaneously, I constantly was.

Our daily routine right now is a bit like being back in investment banking.

Just worse.

At the time, life could be summarised to pretty much one thing : work and running. Days would be : get to work between 8- 9am, leave around midnight on a good day, not at all on a less-good one, and fit at least an hour of running on the work gym's treadmill in between. When time became slighly more of a commodity, I just added climbing and yoga to the running. Plain and simple.

Looking back at the last few months, it is amazing how much we managed to put on our plate.

It all started when I left my job last Spring. A blessing, for sure, but one which meant that, quickly, I needed to find a fall-back position, as it seemed we could sadly not omit the fact that, job or no jobs, bills needed to be paid. Shame, I know. 

Then, at the beginning of summer and after 2 years of looking around and probably something close to 40 visits, it seemed we had found a house that 1. we liked enough to consider making an offer on (rare), 2. may be in our price range (even rarer). Cool, but it made the job situation even more of an issue, and, since then, our days pretty busy.  Checking whether we could really afford it.  Convincing mortgage provider we could really afford it. Debating future work to be done. Debating how much to offer. Debating if said offer would be accepted.  Debating, following acceptation of offer, whether we would eventually exchange contracts. Exchanging contracts. Starting dealing with architect, builders, contractors. Feeling we are way out of our comfort zone here. And the list goes on.

Very cool house, and we're very fortunate, but boy, I sometimes wish we

had bought something we could straight in!

Then of course, in the midst of all this, I found out I was pregnant. Not that this came as a surprise (I mean, we did work on it). But unlike the relatively stress-free pregnancy #1, it immediately looked that this one may not only be about sitting running around and watching my belly grow.

First, there is Malo, who may be a super easy-going little Monsieur, but needs his fair share of attention (which I am more than happy to give, being the Mother Hen that I am ). Second there is work. The intent here is to try and get a few clients which could provide repeat business, so that, 1. it pays the bills (see above), 2. I can capitalise of this after the birth of #2, when prospecting and marketing may prove a bit challenging (unless in the space of 3 months it becomes OK to turn up at a meeting breastfeeding a newborn). Let's face it, I think I could have chosen a better time to start my own business. Third, there is the new house, which is eating up a lot of my time. Bottom line is, I am snowed under, even without mentioning my attempts at trying to fit some runs in. I do manage to get outside, sometimes, but comparing my weekly activities with that I had when expecting Malo would make me feel like a lazy b*** if I did not know better.

So yes, the good old investment banking life feels a bit like a walk in the park, these days. Fitting in 18-hour work days and a fair amount of running. Phew, easy. Life today is so much worse...

Except I am lying.

It is not worse.

It is indeed busier, if that's possible. It does indeed get frustrating at times, because I miss my running and also hate the feeling of trying to do too many things at once and not doing a good job at any.

But worse? God, no!

I just need to think at the little one growing in my belly, and imagine him/her running around in our new garden or going up the mountain behind our new home. I just need to think about, how, if things work out alright, working for myself will hopefully give me, in the not too distant future, a job I like, time for my kids and time for sports. And most of all, I just need to think that, if I am lucky, like his/her brother, #2 will tell me, as soon as he/she sees me putting my running shoes on : "moi aussi, Maman, courir", while looking for his own running shoes... and it immediately feel so worth it!

(Now if on top of this I could get a few repeat clients before April, and if getting quotes from the builders could be a bit less of a pain, I swear I would not mind).

Here we go again

Back in early September, I had my first pre-natal yoga class of this pregnancy. I know my yoga teacher fairly well. She's nice, and quite knowledgeable about what she teaches and physiology in general.

So here am I, walking in the yoga studio with my bike helmet in hand.

- "Are you still cycling?", the yoga instructor asks me, half-laughing, half-crossed

-"Of course", I say,  wondering a bit why the question, "I am only 11 weeks pregnant" (Oh no, 10 weeks have gone since then? Well, I guess it is only yet another evidence that I don't update this blog as often as I should).

Then, as this is the first class (remember this is France, where almost everything, not just school, stops during the 2-month summer school break), the 5 girls attending introduce themselves and explain what their expectations for the class and for their pregnancy more generally are. One of these girls, who happens to be expecting for the same day as me, says she is into sports, including running ultra-trails and triathlons. YES! I say to myself, almost aloud because I am so excited : it is not that often we get to meet people who do as much sports as us, and even less often (bordering on : never) that we meet parents of young children still getting their fair share of exercising (although, if you ask us, we're far from getting a share we would describe as "fair"). 

Then this girl goes on to say she expects yoga to compensate a bit for the fact she must stop running and cycling. Not because she's been having a difficult pregnancy, just because her OB-gyn does not feel comfortable about the idea of running when pregnant. To which (wait, this is getting better and better) the yoga teacher replies that this is right, pregnancy is not the time for this type of sports.

Full stop.

Then it is my turn to talk, and the yoga teacher introduces me like the crazy one who is always on the go, even when knocked up. Now, I am not saying pregnant running, or cycling, or any other sports for that matter, is a must. I totally understand if women don't feel like running (let's face it, I understand it less if they just feel like doing nothing but sitting on their butt, but that's just me). I just happen to think that, if a girl is not having any specific problems AND if she feels like it, yes, she can run. And cycle. And do pretty much what she wants as long as it is safe and she feels good about doing it. And if she feels she should not run, or plain and simple does not want to, well, that's just fine, too.

Except this is France, where Clapp has yet to be translated (now, as a newly established writer and translator, maybe that's where I should start!). France where you stop pretty much everything bar slow walking and swimming the second two lines appears on the pregnancy test. France where, when pregnant with Malo and googling "course à pied cyclisme grossesse" I only found ONE Frenchie who blogged about cycling while pregnant.  France where a running magazine dedicated to women recently published an article on running while pregnant, which I started reading full of hope the French had at last seen the light... only to discover after one paragraph that the recommendation was to stop when entering the fifth month. No explanations, no reasons given, no medical professionals interviewed. Nothing. Just DON'T DO IT.

So here we go again. Two years after being pregnant with Malo, it looks like I will still be told that, surely, all this bouncing can't be good for the baby. It looks that I will still be running and cycling by myself, or with Martin, but definitely not with another big, round belly. And it looks like I won't be given a chance to explain that, I swear, I am not a child murderer, I have done my research and it seems that it is possible to run while pregnant.

But that'ok. I am fine with it. Really. Or at least much more than the first time round. Unlike three years ago, I am not on a mission to convince the world that a) I am not a lone crazy woman looking at ways to harm her foetus, b) exercising, including - oh, gasp - running is not a bad thing for my baby. Instead, I will mind my own business running, and do what's good for my body, for my head, and for my baby. And too bad if I am the only one around doing it :-)

Oh, and I will try and remember, on occasions where I may will get a bit pissed off with ignorant / jugdemental / unfriendy comments, what my neighbour said last think when seeing me depart for a run with Malo  in this Chariot :
"Way to go. An hour from now you both will be back all relax and happy".
If she, a not sporty, pretty conservative, 60sth year old lady who has probably never wore running shoes in her entire life, can see it, there is probably still hope for French running pregnant woman in this world!

Just the right thing to say

OK, those who have tried (I feel for you, I really do) but not quite managed to get to the end of my last race report previous novel, I totally understand, and to prove it, I just give you The Novel's last paragraph's piece of news : baby #2 is on its way.

Now, since I am just over 13 weeks now, it seems obvious it would have been premature to share the news earlier, but, I hear you say, that's not an excuse for taking 2 months to publish the race report I used to bury the pregnancy news in.

Well, actually, it was an excuse. Because blogging was not top of my priorities for the last two months, nor was reporting about how much fun I had had to race, no matter how seldom this happens.

Why? Because a week after the race, I found out I was pregnant. And a few hours after that, a biologist at the lab where I had gone for confirmatory blood tests told me my baby was not viable. Well, she did not say "baby", of course, she used the more clinical term "embryo". Like this would make her news less of a big deal.

So this is how you go from having a huge grin on your face after peeing on a stick, to wondering how many hours or days before you lose the baby.

I have always wanted this blog to be sort of funny, or, falling short of that, make you laugh at my expense (no, really, I am OK with it). One thing is certain, I did NOT (still don't) want it to be a place to talk about life and death or where to share my problems (which, let's face it, bore me enough myself as it is without others having to read about them). Problem was, I could not have found a way to write about what was just happening to us in a funny way (not that I even wanted to try anyway).  So I just shut up for a while.

To cut a long story short, we left on holiday the day we got the good-immediately-turned-bad news, had what may not be remembered as the most memorable time off ever went through hell, waited 4 weeks before I was back in town and could see the OB, get a scan, and be told the heart was beating but we could not say more at this stage and had to wait until the 12-week scan. So we went off again, feeling very marginally better, I not allowing myself to feel totally pregnant and feeling like life was sort of on stand-by for another 4 weeks.

The scan is now done, and it looks like the baby is just fine. I am now going to be able to enjoy being pregnant, run, do yoga, enjoy the beautiful Indian summer we have right now, try to motivate myself to blog more often, and feel grateful I am not a student anymore, having to write the customary beginning of the year essay "describe your most memorable holiday moment". I will also try not to let my mind being polluted by negative thoughts or resentment, but I can't help wondering, considering her lack of tact (not to mention incompetency) if the woman biologist who told me the baby who not live, is a mother herself...