There was a time

There was a time when I knew it all.

I knew I loved running.

I knew I loved travelling.

I knew kids were fun... ish... At least for a while. Actually, only for a while.

I knew lots of running and lots of travelling did not match too well with kids (even not a lot of kids) so I knew I did not want kids.

After a while, I also knew what to reply to people (read "my mother") telling me that was selfish : wasn't making babies who had clearly not asked for it the true selfish thing?

There was a time when I still loved running but could not do it anymore because love hurts, sometimes, and sometimes it even leads to surgery, and to a 9-month running ban.

There was a time when I met Martin, who, against expectations, was probably a bit *mentally impaired* (or drunk?) since he fell in love with me.

There was a time, less than six months later, when I still did not want kids, still loved running, still could not run, when Martin's mind was still not 100% operational, and when we went on holiday in the Southern Alps Ecrins Massif. Since I could not run nor climbed, we biked, and Martin proposed.

One day, after a gruelling day-ride on the Plateau d'Emparis, we stopped by a lake, starring at the magnificient Meije Peak on the other side of the valley. 

We said that if one day we had a daughter, she would be named after that peak, the symbol of our love for the mountains, for each other, and for mountaing biking, of course.Which, of course, was a joke, since I did not want kids.

There was a time where the having-kids joke had become (a nice fantastic) reality. The reality was a boy, whose name brings pictures of rough waters and blue-grey skies instead of mountains. Meije-the-mountain was still in our life though, and running was back into it. By then, having discovered something magic going by the name of Chariot,  I begged to differ when hearing that running did not mix well with kids. And when even Chariot (or our legs) was defeated by the terrain, we could sometimes count on grand-parents to look after our boy for a few hours while his parents had decided to run and get a close-up at the Meije. 

Bless them for understanding the attraction... or maybe had they just learned the painful way how it feels to be next to me when I am run-deprived and realised it was way more pleasant to be baby-sitting Malo instead.  

There was a time, almost five years to the day after our ride in front of the Meije, when we found out I was expecting our second child. Five months later, we were told it would be a girl. Eight and a half months later - having inherited her mum's limietd patience, or heard so much about mountains she wanted to check for herself what the big deal was about, and nine months seemed to long - Meije was born.

It has been four monts now... 

 ... and our life of adventures with the two Meijes is only starting.

Oh look Maman, it's you and Meije!

... is what Malo said when he opened this, a present from his Granny :

No need to say I took it as a compliment, was chuffed Malo immediately associated a running Playmobil with his mum (note / the key word here is "running") and will make sure this playmobil set will never, ever, get lost.

Hell on the Hill

Now that you’ve clicked on the link, hoping for some gore story or a detailed account of a disaster of some kind, I can tell you this was not as awful as it could have been. 

Last Sunday was Meije’s three month-“birthday”. Since it also happened to be 30°C with clear sky, it seemed like the perfect Sunday to do our first “real” mountain hike as a family of four. This is what we see from our house…

The Parmelan behind our house

This also happens to be the mountain Martin and I often used to run up to on those pre-Meije Saturday mornings where The-girl-who-help-us-staying-sane(-and-fit), namely Elodie the baby-sitter, came to look after Malo, and where we’re hoping dying to get back for weekend trail runs very soon. This seemed like two perfect reasons to choose the Parmelan as the destination for our first family-of-four hike. 

It did not start well. 

Since we had attempted to do that same hike last weekend only to bail out when we realised it had taken us so long to get ready that it was time for lunch, we got more organised this time, packing as much as we can on Saturday night. That’s when problems actually started. You know you can forget about light, alpine-style ascents when equipped with a toddler and a baby. But alpine-style notwithstanding, how are you still supposed to pack everything you need when one parent will be carrying kid n°1 in a backpack, the other will be carrying kid n°2 in a sling, and there none of you can therefore carry any proper backpack? And thank God for inventing breastfeeding because at least I did not have to think about packing a baby bottle, a container with solution milk, water to transform said solution milk in something edible by a 3-month old, extra milk in case she is unexpectedly hungry again, therefore extra water, etc, etc… So, despite our Saturday night pre-packing, and despite Malo’s help in trying for a reasonably early start by waking up at 6.15am, it was not so early when we finally had managed to fit nappies, pads, spare clothes, wind-proof jackets, water and food-but-only-for-Malo-because-there-is-not-enough-space-to-take-fod-for-everybody. Finally we set of. By car, because it will still be a while before we can do with the kids the 1100m climb that is involved if leaving from the house, and we therefore had chosen to start from a hut half way up. 

And that’s where problems carried on. Because Parmelan being one of the mountains overlooking Annecy and parking space being available half-way up, it (unfortunately) attracts a big crowd on sunny summer days, even the usually-does-not-do-sports-unless-one-counts-watching-soccer-in-front-of-TV-as-a-sport crowd.  That means we found ourselves, 10 minutes after leaving home, stuck behind a massive SUV on the steep and narrow dirt road leading to the hut, said SUV being itself stuck because of two extra long rows of cars parked on both sides of the dirt road, preventing it to move further. Had we been able to do a U-turn at that point, I think we would have driven back home. But, as you’ll guess from what I said above, U-turns were not an option.  So we’ll try and be patient (some of us managing better than others) and not bitch against fat couch potatoes with big SUVs (some of us not managing that part at all), and by the time we managed to park, it was 11am, hence the perfect time to start a hike with a small child and a baby, no shade and 30°C.

In the end, it was all worth it.

We saw cows with their bells “singing” (Malo). Cows are very big, literally and figuratively, for Malo, these days.

We passed by disabled people being carried by volunteers on plastic chairs fixed on wooden stretchers, so that they could hike to the top, which made us say we should also try and help next year, because everybody (bar fat coach potatoes with SUVs) should have the right to experience the magic of the mountains.

We saw our house from the top, or rather, Martin and I saw it and Malo, being a good sport, pretended he did because his poor parents clearly thought that was a very big deal indeed. 

Our house is at the right of my belly (and 1100m below) ... but you'll have to take my word for it.

We also saw trail runners. One of them, thin as a stick and wearing plain, grey-ish running gear which had seen better days, was running up effortlessly. Others wore spotless bright trail running shoes (which, given how much rain we had lately can only mean they were brand new) and shinny t-shirts with the latest [fill whatever you want here: as long as it sounds very complicated and does not mean anything, it will do] technology. We could not say how fast these ones could be, since they were walking. One thing we could say though is that we know in which category we see ourselves. Call us running snobs if you wish, it is still better than being a Salomon walking ad. 

Malo was super excited about being here, on the mountain he can watch every day from the house or from the car coming back from day care, and whose name I made sure he knows perfectly already. He walked (not all the way though!) like a real trooper, climbed every rock who happened to be on his way, and a good deal of the others, and fell asleep in the backpack on the way back seconds after having said he was not tired and did not want to take a nap when we would get home.

A big and a little M...

 Meije slept the whole way, waking up on top only to be fed and survived nappy changing in the cold mountain wind. Some people were clearly worried she might get oxygen deprived, but seeing the colour of her cheeks when we got back to the hut, I think there just worried too much - and I mean, we’re respectable parents who took their girl to 1800m-Parmelan, not (yet) to Mount Everest.

Martin stopped complaining (at least for that day) about not doing enough exercise since he seemed to have found carrying 15kgs-Malo in the 2.5kgs back-pack (with additional 2l-hence-2kg of water on the way up) for a bit chunk of our 4 hour hike of our hike rather challenging was on the quads. 

As for me, I got it all: a nice day out, the three loves of my life with me, my first proper hike since Meije’s birth. And a migraine on a way back. That must have been at the thought of the fat coach potato with a SUV.

... and my two little Ms!

The end of an Era

No, I am not talking about that time where I had abs (although I could, because this time also seems to have ended for good).

I am talking about the end of the time of my baby still being a baby. At least Baby N°1.

The past few weeks have been challenging on the Mother Hen front. Ten days ago was the summer party at Malo’s Crèche (the day care centre), and the last one we would be attending. And I cried. The images of almost three years of my life, of our life, went by in front of my eyes. How I was crying my head off (yes, this is becoming a recurring theme on this blog since I became a mum – I could never pull it as a tough investment banker anymore even if I had to) the first day Malo went to day-care or the first week (and many others) when he started going full time.  How amazingly gifted my son proved to be, his first (and following) drawings works of art proudly kept in a file or framed and hanged on the wall (but I had an excuse: the colour scheme matched that of the living room). The relationship built with the ladies saints looking after Malo and his friends, who put the meaning of “dedication” to a whole new level, regularly calling at work to say “I have noticed it was a bit hard for you to leave Malo this morning (and I thought I had hidden it all), but don’t worry, he’s right now in front of my eyes, having a lot of fun, and  he got plenty of cuddles”.

It has been so special too to see Malo changing from a baby to a toddler to a little social animal with his group of pals.  Talking proudly about “mes copains” (“my friends”). Requesting to invite said “copains” at home… only to cry because he then has to lend his bike – I can’t blame him though, some things should not have to be shared.  Coming home with new words he does not understand the meaning of (not that they always have a meaning, mind you), but which must be cool since his friends in the know (ie those with big sisters / brothers) shout them 24-7 (and was tempted to complain some of these words were really stupid, before I realised some of them I was already saying with unlimited bliss almost 40 years ago… good things often stand the test of time).  Talking about “Cars Mc Queen” even though we do not have TV and he has no clue what this is all about – I must admit to having since caved in to the Cars craziness and bought Cars boxer shorts, and am not even (too) ashamed about forgetting for once about my “no Disney-or-what-have-you-commercial-crap-in-this-house” principle, seeing the joy on Malo’s face when he got them.

In September, my baby is going to school. I know, this is school, not some hardcore military camp. I know, school for 3-year olds still involve a lot of fun things, playing, singing, drawing, even having nap times (although on naps being a fun good thing I am sure Malo would beg to differ). I know that even learning things can be fun (if well taught, and physics aside, but maybe that’s just me, and there won’t be any physics just yet anyway).  But school is also about having 25 kids for 1 teacher in the classroom, not 15 kids for 3 ladies as in day-care, so I am not sure cuddles will stand high on this lady’s agenda. It is also about discipline, about sitting, standing, being silent, answering, drawing, running ( yes, even running, I am sure) only when the teacher says so. And although I am all in favour of discipline, this should not necessarily be 8 hours a day, 4 days a week. Not for my baby… and not when it involves limiting his totally understandable love of running, that goes without saying.

To make things even tougher on Mother Hen, Meije will start going to day-care 3 days a week pretty much on the same day Malo will start school. And here it looks like I will definitely prove wrong those who say that separation from your baby is easier with the second one. Believe me, that’s bulls***.  As far as I am concerned, I feel the urge for crying when I think about my girl and I being apart as much as for I did when Malo was her age. And since there is no plan for another kid, I also admit to a fair amount of nostalgia thinking about the time as a full-time mum with a tiny baby that will soon be gone and never be again (although yes, I know, she only starts in September so these are not over yet. Call me a masochist… and you’ll be right as this blog has already often shown).

In other (not directly related, although…) news, I am still not running (much), but as there is definitely some improvement, so it could just be that the end of the “me as the mother of two babies” era will not also be that of the “running mom” one.  In the meantime, I’ll take my (relative) inactivity as a reminder of how awful my poor little boy will soon feel when regularly denied the fundamental right to run whenever he feels like it.

Meije

Meije was born on March 24, just over two weeks early. We're back home since yesterday, and it is just magic to be this new family of four!

More when I have regained some kind of control over my life (so probably in about 20 years), but to keep you waiting til then, some first photos...

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.

Malo's Mini Milestones - 2 -

Right. My hopes that writing about Malo's milestones would force me into posting more regularly have been crushed miserably. I have got my excuses lined up (very good ones, no need to say), but that will be for another post. Maybe.

Since last post, Malo has made a lot of progress, done many funny things, tried to say many new words., invented many others. I obviously told myself I needed to write all of this down before I forget, stupidly failed to do, and expectedly curse myself for it now.

A few of the ones I do remember, though:

- Starting with a very emotional note for me... My Grand-Dad left our world recently. A week before he left, I had taken Malo, Martin and some friends of ours to hike up Croix du Nivolet, a hike  in the Bauges Massif, where my Grand-Dad was from, and which my grand parents, brother and I did pretty much every summer when we were coming to spend a week with them during the summer holidays. These were memories I wanted to share with my two men, and I was very happy to take them there. Malo behaved as a real little "montagnard", walking pretty much the whole way. That same evening, I call my Grand-Dad to tell them about our hike, but he had been very tired lately, and he did not answer the phone. I am happy we made this hike... I am happy Malo seems to enjoy so much being outside... the wheel of life continues...

- Malo has lately taken to calling everybody "poupée" ("doll") with a preference for big burly men running past in tight lycra. This is since Martin, on a rare outing to a department store, told Malo, who was looking puzzled at some mannequin, that this was a "poupee", the German world for doll. Since my son is not stupid and that did not look, even remotely, like a doll, he clearly decided "poupee" was the word for anything human (yes, I know, a mannequin isn't, but since the manufacturer clearly did a good job, it did look more like a human than like a doll)... He has therefore, since then, been calling pretty much everybody he comes accross 'poupee". Little girls, young boys, mothers, old ladies. And big burly men in running past in tight lycras.

- He is saying "non non non non non" by way of "no", voiced in a vehement, concerned, end-of-the-world, maman-what-are-you-thinking-asking-me-to-do-this kind of way, all the while vigorously shaking his head  from left to right. And it goes for everything : eat red things, come to put his shoes on, change nappies, go back inside.

- Talking about red things, although the Petite Boule still loves eating, he has nevertheless developed some "like" and "don't like". Or rather, some "like" and "I absolutely refuse to let this get anywhere close to my mouth even though you're swearing to me it will be good". That especially goes for strawberries, cherries and raspberries, so I am starting wondering if he had not decided red things were not to be eaten, full stop.

- For Easter, Malo got a new book from his Austrian Granny, which has become one of his favourite. It tells the story of Olli the little mouse,  who one morning wakes up only to realise he cannot find his toy duck. Through the pages, Olli looks out for his darling duck, with the invaluable help of Malo, dutifully checking, on page 2, under the carpet, on page 3, in the fridge and  in the cupboard, on page 4 behind the shower's curtain and in the washing machine, and so on. As this is a happy story, Olli, in the end, finds his duck hidden under his bed's blanket. Malo loves the story, but the story-telling has lately become very short. As Martin or I turn on to page 2, about to ask in a very concerned voice, if, by any chance, Olli's duck could be under the carpet, Malo impatiently tells us 'non non non' while himself turning on the pages to the last one where he victoriously shows us the duck hidden under the blanket...  all the while clearly thinking that his parents are not the smartest cookies in the pack, not remembering, after so many times of reading that story, when the duck has hidden himself...

- Our Petite Boule absolutely refuse, no point arguing, threatening or trying to convince, to go barefoot in the grass. This is not new, but we had hopes, last year, that as he would start walking, this fear would disappear. It did not, and instead, Malo uses the "levitation" option when we try to put him down in the grass, or failing this, prefers staying completely still until we come and carry him somewhere safer, and this for as long as it takes. No need to say he wins. In the meantime, his tree-hugging parents wonder what the hell they did to deserve this and are considering getting a life-time mortgage to afford a house with a garden, so that Malo can be walking-in-the-grass trained on a daily basis.

That was last summer in Austria... but Malo's

levitation skills have not gotten worse since then

- Malo has had for a long time a fascination for bicycles, something that unlike his dislike for grass, we're pretty pleased happy ecstatic about, and for which, given that we cycle everywhere and our only car rarely gets out of the garage, we take full credit for. His love for bikes and our pride thus justified that we made a exception to our rule of not getting him big presents unless there is a birthday or Xmas coming, and we therefore invested in a wooden run bike. Admitedly, we had doubts he would manage to use it, given he is not even 21 months old. In fact, before being able to even check that he would understand what to do, Martin had to make an additional hole (despite this being the smallest bike on the market) to lower the saddle further! But once this was done, ... he was a star! Martin is beaming at other parents' comments that their child was too scared or not coordinated enough to ride their bike before their second birthday, and would almost already plan for Malo's first Tour du Lac (the 45km ride around the Annecy lake). As for me, I am taking the p***, out of Martin... while being (not so) secretly super proud of my son, too.

He's not even shying away of off-road cycling, my son...

It is hard to believe I once wondered if I would ever want to have kids...

Beginning of a new adventure

Almost a year to the day after Malo was born, we are about to embark on a new adventure.

No, I am not talking about Malo's little brother (who in any case will be a girl if Martin has it his way). If anything, our new adventure will delay the brother/sister for a while, since I am about to start a new job.

Fast rewind 32 months back. We had just moved to France, leaving London for a life in the Alps, full of running, climbing, cycling and other fun "ing" things (including, for Martin, learning French, although at the time I am not sure he found it that fun). I had ditched my banker's job and decided to give me a few months to try and find the holy graal: a job as interesting as the old one, but not involving my working nights and weekends, and leaving me with enough free time to make the most of the mountains around. Nine months later, I had the perfect offer. Promptly  (and probably no so legally) withdrawn when it became clear the crisis was here, and here to stay. Add two months to that, and I was pregnant with Malo, and under no illusions I would find a job "in my condition". 

As much as I had been saying, "before", that I so could not see myself as a staying at home mum, that I needed the intellectual stimulation that work brings, that there was no way I could spend all day with a baby or toddler and stay sane, etc, etc, etc... it became obvious this was all nonsense the minute I got to held Petite Boule in my arms. And that was not even because of novelty or because I had yet to experience the sleepless nights.  On the contrary, the strength of that feeling actually grew in perfect correlation with that the size and weight of my son.

Then reality kicked in: I needed to work. Not so much for the intellectual stimulation (which I got from my daily and long conversation monologues with Petite Boule), not so much for the social interaction (thank God for the crisis and the French welfare system: there were plenty of friends around with new-borns and on extended maternity leave). But for the money, oh, yes. It is, I guess, one of the drawbacks of living in a cool place with a lake, some mountains, and 40 kms away from Switzerland (where salaries are three times as high as here): life is here is a bloody expensive bliss. 

I won't go through the ordeal it was to leave Malo in day care once a week to free up time to look for a job: that would take a whole day of describing, and my posts are long enough as they are.  Let 's just say that, while I did not feel guilty for leaving him with a baby-sitter once in a while on a Saturday morning to go running or cycling with Martin (the way I see it, I come back relax and happy, so that's good for him, too), leaving him in the middle of 15 other crying babies was another story, because I am a mother hen, and because I knew that, sooner or later, he would have to be there five days a week, 47 weeks a year. 

Now the time has come. I have found a job, starting in... nine hours.

It took longer than expected (but what exactly did I expect, with only 8 hours a week where work related calls could not be interrupted by a baby requiring food, clean nappies, or simply a cuddle from his mum), which generated quite some stress, but which I am also very grateful for, since it means I got to spend a full year home with Malo. Him getting bigger and clearly enjoying the contact with other kids has not eased my feeling a tremendous guilt at knowing he will spend 50 hours a week in day care, and my missing in anticipation all these fantastic moments with him, his daily progess which will be witnessed by somebody else, his outburst of love. In a nutshell, the life with a one-year old lovely little devil.

Sure, it may actually be easier when I am in the job, busy getting up to speed, discovering a new working environment, meeting new colleagues. Sure, I think I chose the right option: a job not very well paid, for which I am over-qualified, but which seems interesting. I will be managing internal organisation projects, which surely has to be the perfect job for an anal-retentive such as myself. It also has the distinct advantage of being located 15 minutes from home and day-care, and comes with 10 weeks vacation (which, even for France, is a pretty good deal!).

There should also be numerous advantages to being back at work, aside from getting a monthly pay slip, or or so am I at least trying to convince myself.

- As Petite Boule is close to turning from a crawling ball to a walking one, and already using anything he finds on his way to stand up, I am glad I won't be the one witnessing his falls and bruises live, because this currently breaks my heart everytime it happens.

- After 10 hours away, his mum should be more than ever the star of his life, right? (if not right, please do not tell me, I need all the comfort I can get, and will shamelessly resort to lies if that does the job).

- Now that I have a good reason not to be able to do clean up the flat (apparently "I do not enjoy it and do not consider it a good use of my time" did not seem to qualify), we'll at last probably get a cleaning person (other that Malo, who is usually doing the job by crawling on the floor with a freshly washed white shirt).

- I may not have any longer to spend an entire evening, as it recently happened, having to try and convince the guys present that it is not because I am "not working" that I don't have a brain and have read the manual on how to use it (and by the way, regarding the "not working" bit: for what it is worth, I happen to find it much strenous, if pleasant, work looking after a baby full time than going to work five days a week).

- Although, as I said, I am not missing too much yet the intellectual stimulation provided by work, it could be that, in the longer term, my brain would have started to slowly die off, limited to reading about Babar and Elmer and speaking in 4-word-at-the-most sentences.

- My osteopath bills should significantly reduce, now that I won't have to carry Malo several hours a day, lift him from his bed three times daily, and spend what would have been a growing amount of time bent in two because he has decided it is cooler to walk rather than crawl through the flat, but need his mum's supporting hands to do so (and even if I am a bit of a dwarf, I am still more - although not that much more -  than twice his height, meaning that's a lof of bending over).

- Now that my work-outs will have to take place during lunchbreak instead of with Malo in his Chariot, I should be able to fit speed work, intervals and what-have-you in (not that I like them so much, but again, I need to find ways to get excited).

- Working barely a 10 minute run from my usual mountain trails means I may even be able to squeeze a short mountain run from time to time (now, I am getting close to not even having to pretend getting excited).

Of course, these advantages identified and acknowledged, a lot of questions still remain to be answered, which no doubt will have a great influence of whether I will like this job or not.

Starting with a pretty fundamental one: will there be showers at work?

The Birthday Boy and the Sappy Mum

In most areas of my life, including on this blog, talking about the very, very, serious topic of running, I tend to be ironic, even caustic on a good day. It does not mean to hurt anybody, it is mostly directed at myself, like a shell, and my way to try and stay distanciated, and pretend I am the tough cookie I am not.

Today, celebrating Malo first birthday, I must come clean: there is one area in which I must admit I totally fail to show distance, objectivity, or my trademark dry sense of humour. When it comes to talking about being a mum, think of a cliché, then that'll be me. I am just standing on a little cloud, unable to believe my luck at having such a perfect (in all objectivity) little thing into my life.

I swear I have tried.

I have tried to pretend I don't like changing dirty napppies. Or having to get up at 7am every morning including weekends (on this one, yes, I know, most mums would consider that very late anyway). Or dealing with teething problems. Or not being able to have a remotely intellectual conversation (or making sentences consisting of more than 4 words for that matter) until Martin comes back from work. Or being unable to have one single minute of "me" time as soon as the little devil is awake.Or hating to have to go to the playground.

I wish I could be, at least for the sake of pretending, like these cool mums who make me laugh when reading their comments about forgetting their kids at the supermarket, missing their life from "before", or feeding their kids ready-made meals intead of home-made organic food cooked with love.

But the truth is, I am not. I just love being a mum. All of it. So much that I don't even want to pretend I don't enjoy it as much as I do.

I loved when, a tiny baby, Malo would fall asleep on my belly.

I loved the feeling of perfect peace that went through me thinking that I could make him happy by just being there.

I loved the first "real" smile he gave me (and could give you the exact date, time and location), that will stay in my mind for ever.

I loved his first laugh, too, and  the fact there has been so many since then.

I love when I go and pick him up at daycare, and he sees me, and start sprint crawling towards me faster than I could run, with a massive smile on his face.

I love getting ready to go for a run with Malo in the Chariot, and see the smile on his face when he realises we're getting out and going running.

I love when he takes my hands to indicate he wants to use me as stablizer-in-chief to get up. Gets up. Sit  down. Takes my hands again. Repeats process 100 times.

I love, love, love, going to the playground with him, and laughing his heart out on the swing. And here, let's face it, I would love going anyway, but, at 37 in two days, I feel less stupid doing so with a toddler and pretending I am going for his sake.

I love when I tell him off and he looks at me, with a massive smile than makes his eyes shine, and I can't tell whether he does not have a clue I am being serious-mum-who-is-telling-him-off now, or whether he on the contrary knows it all too well and has already mastered the way to make me melt.

I love having to tidy up the living room every single night of the week, because Malo has himself done so for the entire day, except he and I do not strictly have the same idea on where things should be.

I love, LOVE, LOVE when my one-year old son, in one of his frequent  "love attacks", suddenly and hurriedly takes my head between his little hands, and give me a big, wet kiss, unfortunately still very often involving very sharp teeths, but given with so much love for such a little person that it is impossible to pretend that you're mad at him or even to let it show that it hurts like hell.

And above all, I love that his love for me is so simple. He doesn't not care whether I am cute, rich, a fast runner, smart, a fast chick on the bike, or a good cook (although given his voracious appetite, he may beg to differ on that one). I am his mum, and that's enough.

So that's me then. Less than 2 years ago an ex-banker who would not take crap from anybody and was not sure she ever wanted kids because she thought she may not "have it in her". Now a mum who regularly ,at night, when the little one has been put to bed, cries, of joy, overwhelmed by how powerful this love for and from Malo is.

Bon Anniversaire Malo!

Why? (A race report - or a psychoanalysis. You choose)

- "Well, I guess it will bring me luck", I say as as I am getting ready for the race and as I watch my now-dirty running socks, on which Malo has just decided to throw up part of his breakfast.

This is my first race since Malo was born. The last one I did with him in my belly, 5 weeks pregnant., but this time, he will be supporting with his dad, from the comfort of his Chariot.  And because chosing a local race would be too simple, I have signed up for a  21km trail race in the mountain part of Provence, four hours from home. We've planned to spend four days there, staying at a local campsite, racing (me), climbing (Martin),  mountain biking with the Chariot in tow (both of us) and wondering what the hell the parents think they are doing (Malo). As a result of this fun programme, the first challenge of the weekend was to try and load the car with two bikes, a Chariot, climbing gear, running shoes, cycling shoes, climbing shoes, Malo's folding bed and his rucksack. More often than not, it feels like having a truck instead of a car would be a smarter choice for us.

I leave Martin deal with a marathon of his own, i.e. making sure Malo's milk, organic courgettes, clean nappies, spare clothes, hat, sunglasses and whatever-else-he-fancies-stocking-up-at-the-bottom-of-the-Chariot, are ready in 15min, so that they can ride, Tour de France style, up the first uphill I'll have to run, and cheer me.

As for me, I get a ride to the start from our campsite neighbour. Last evening, Mister Neighbour looked at Martin in disbelief when Martin said that he was not racing, his wife was, and he would be looking after the baby.  Today, he quickly goes on to telling me he's hoping for a top 15 finish.  I guess the take-away message is: "I am so, SO good".  As for me, my only claim to fame is to have given birth less than 8 months ago, and altough the delivery was a marathon of some kind , I suspect it is one which is unlikely to tremendously help me today.  Well, I tell myself, the hills may be steep today, but at least I won't have to push the Chariot up them (I get comfort any way I can, as pre-race stress is building up).

Soon after, we start. I have signed up for the short race: 21 kms and 850m positive elevation gain.   Not that the long one did not appeal to me (I am a mountain masochist after all, or at least claiming to be, but after my ordeal of a few years ago, I must remind myself that I-am-running-less-than-I-wished is better than this-time-my-ankle-is-f***-for-good-and-I'll-never-be-able-to-run-again).

After the start in the village's centre, we're soon up the first hill.  Only 3kms done, and 18kms to go, but I am feeling good, and can see the regular Mountain Masochist uphill training should pay off.  Martin and Malo are here to cheer me, although Martin almost misses me, later claiming that, because I am so short, he did not see me, hidden as I was in the middle of a pack of normal-size runners.

First downhill, and trouble starts: a stitch. Oh, no. I blame it on pregnancy, not having got my abs back, and feeling like my organs are playing the mambo-jumbo inside my belly. But I need not worry because soon enough, it's uphill again, and, if there should be only one good thing about it, it is that the stitch goes away.

Or is it that the stitch has gone away because I AM BLOODY WALKING.  So that my pride does not get hurt unduly, let say straight away this walking situation (at that point at least) NOT of my own volition. I just happen to be stuck behind some runners clearly shocked that they could be so many steep hills ,on a trail run, in the Alps. Shocked, and breathless, and with lactic acid up to their eyeballs.  Hence the walking. Hence my being stuck. With no possibilty to overtake, as the single trail is indeed very "single" , and bordered on  each side by dense vegetation.  And as I am looking at my feet to kill time, I realise I am about to lose the time chip, which would be a bummer.  After all, at this pace, I am set to cross the finish line in about 2 or 3 days, and that would be a shame not to have it made official, wouldn't it?

By the time the trail is finally (a tiny little bit) wider, allowing me to overtake, I realise I find it super hard  to get back in motion and find my rythm again.  Then I spot Martin and Malo waiting for me, and stop to give the little devil (the big one too, actually) a kiss.

 WHAT?... Is that what motherhood does to you? Stopping, on a 21km race, when you don't have to? When you should be sprinting taking advantage of a few hundreds metres of not-so-steep dirt road? After a couple of minutes (ie just the time for Malo to wonder who is this stinking alien with sunglasses,  funny socks on, and a big, black number on her t-shirt), I am off again. But the fact remains: I have stopped .  During a race. And not even because I was about to die, just because I felt like it. Can't one get jailed for this?

Starting again, I enjoy a few hundreds metres of flatter terrain, with stunning views onto Mont Ventoux, which I will ride up to as soon as I get the chance (it is long, it is windy, it makes you wonder why you  thought you had to leave your car at the bottom, what not to like about it?).  The road-runner in me wakes up: no more heavy breathing, no more stop-and-go, the legs are just flowing. But a few hundreds meters are a bit short to get in the Zone, and soon enough, we're running up a steep countryside road again.

Unfortunately, by then, whatever killer instinct I may have had in me has gone. I decide I don't like uphills (even tough I have done rather well on them while training - sometimes being light and short has some advantages) , I don't like roads (not very credible either for somebody who spend the first ten years of her running life pounding the pavement), and I don't like the idea of the 18-20% climb waiting for me after the water station, at km 14. Looking at the race's profile the previous week, the upcoming climb, the steepest of the race, looked 3.5-4km long, i.e. more than long enough to make sure it will hurt big time.  I figure there is no point then to rush up that road now, knowing what comes later.  And so I walk. Again.

Of course, the thought that I have RUN (as in: NOT WALKED) steeper stuff when training with Martin, does cross my mind at this point... no explanation there: I guess I am just a wimp.  A wimp not used to to running with hundreds of people, and to sometimes having to adapt my pace to theirs, because I am stuck on a bloody single, very single indeed, trail.

That's when a guy who has been running next to me for a few minutes starts talking to me.
- "you're the wife of the guy who has been cycling up all that dirt roads with the Chariot. Whoa, that's quite a challenge, and I should know, we have a Chariot too, and we never got it anywehere else than flat land: too hard." Was I complaining about not having any decent claim to faim? Well, here you go: I may be the one running up that gruelling climb, but what I'll be remember as is "the wife of the guy cycling up with the Chariot". Oh well.

Anyway, feeling sociable today (which makes me a sociable walking wimp), we start talking about kids, Chariots, running, life in a nutshell. If anything, that helps passing time, and a little while later, we at last reach the water station. Again with the hellish climb ahead in mind, I figure a couple of minute stop won't make a huge difference now, and given that I have not been able to eat much  in the morning, I desperately need to eat something anyway.

Then, as I am refilling my camelbak, one of the girls at the station cheerfully announces that respite is soon there and we have only 1.5kms more to climb.  WHAT? I don't know how I got things so wrong, but in any case, it suddenly, it feels very, very stupid indeed to have stopped to refuel with only such a short uphill portion to go. Plus, a girl who is being paced by her boyfriend has just passed without stopping, and that, cannot stay unpunished (I just don't approve of pacers). 

So here am I, running full of energy again... only to have to stop a few hunderds metres further, because the climb may be shorter  than I thought at this point, but flatter it is not, and again, I am stucked behind this long queue of runners. Frustrating, but nothing to do about it, and partly my own fault anyway.

I eventually reach the top of the climb, and soon after, start the descent towards the village and the finish line. It is a super narrow, super steep, super technical, this is where I thought I would waste time, and I am flying.  WHOA, THIS IS FUN! The last km is run on the road, and again, the road-runner in me wakes up: I am picking up the pace again, things are feeling smooth. I sprint to the finish line with a huge smile on my face, and soon Malo in my arms.

I finish 16th woman, and 10th in my age group (nothing glorious here: it just means that 6 Vets were actually faster than me).  Not bad, given I have done only 3 trail races before (one of them pregnant) and most of all given what a poor race I did in view of my training. Maybe that's my claim to fame then: "the girl who is the wife of the guy cycling up with the Chariot AND runs much better and faster when she is training than on actual race day".

Then, as the awards ceremony gets started, the organiser announces that he wants to apologise, the course has been modified at the last minute, and he forgot to mention it at the pre-race briefing. The course was 1050m of elevation gain instead of the stated 850m, the water station had been moved further. than initially  intented, and instead of rollinh hills, we got a solid 10km-or-so climb. So the climbs were as  steep and long as they feel then. Well, that's a relief, for my mind if not for my legs. And my strategy of stopping for refuel would have been the right one had the station not been moved.  Still not  an impressive performance I gave, and still does not justify the walking, but it makes me feel marginally better about my run.

As I am walking back to the campsite later that day, I can't help wondering why I raced, and whether I did enjoy it. After all, there is no shortage of super nice trails on which to run back home, and more importantly, on which NOT to get stuck behing other runners.  And I don't need  races to push myself so I did not do it  either because I needed some kind of goal to train.  Instead, I feel rather frustrated with myself:  I finish in a decent time and at a decent place, but definitely not by pushing hard enough, which means I should have finish in a better time, at a better place.

But then... I have somehow enjoyed the race too...  I enjoyed the superb scenery (granted, I spent more time looking at my feet in an attempt to avoid the falls than admiring the mountains, but I am sure there were amazing). The friendly chats (even though they made me feel like the "wife of", and did not do any good to my speed). The bliss of managing to see my husband and son on no less than 4 points of the race (even though one should never waste time by stopping to kiss people - even ones son - on a race).  Oh, and I enjoyed the strategies devised post-race to improve my performance at the next race.

Oh yeah, because I have signed up for another one. Which means that if I walk the uphill sections of this one too, I will end up walking the entire race, because it will be a 23kms, 1500m elevation, climb, no flats, no downhills. Go figure.

Did I say Masochist?


PS - I think I have just managed a PB of some sort: that of the longest, most boring post. Actually, cross that out: nothing that long and rambling could be called a post. 
Self-inflicted flagellation maybe.
Or an online psycho-analysis.
Or a probably very successful attempt at using once and for good my few readers.
Or all of the above.
End of "post".

Slackin' or Chillin'?

I used to be a runner of the obsessed/compulsive kind. In other words a middle-of-the-(off)road runner, I guess.

Back in the days when I was living in London, I used to get up every morning at 6am to go and work out at the gym before work. If I had not been able to get a run in during the day, I would just go at 11pm. Or later. I would update my log-book religiously, very unhappy with myself if I had not managed 6 runs and 60 miles a week, despite working 60 hour-weeks... I guess I just liked 6s. I could go on and on, but you may be getting bored: either you're a runner and you know all about it, or you're not, and you just don't see the point.

Then things changed.

If you have followed this blog from the beginning, or if you are one of my long-suffering friends (or worse: if you are my not-that-long-but-suffering-nevertheless husband), you know all about my long, painful, horrible, untolerable (add here any very negative adjectives you fancy) months of not being able to run, eventually followed by Redemption.

OK, so I am a runner again. But probably just barely. Because I am not sure I qualify for the "obsessed" title anymore.

So, since it's got to be done, here is The (non exhaustive) Shame List:

- No more early morning gym workouts.  These were the first to go, probably the result of  meeting Martin and thus getting the choice between a cuddle and the gym as a pre-work activity.   I can now also blame it on  the French' "Mediterranean" lifestyle, which means the gym does not open before 8.30am, by which time I am doing a different sort of work-out, throwing balls or crawling on the carpet with a 6-month old.

- No more 11pm-runs.  But I probably would get arrested and detained, on account of dangerous mental illness, if I did do this here anyway.

- While I will try to keep this one pretty quiet, my training log has empty days, and I even sometimes forget to update it. I know, unbelievable.
- I can still get pretty obnoxious if prevented from running, but it usually takes now two days instead of  24 hours at the max a few years ago.
- I am most of the time true to my "it does not have to be fun to be fun" motto, but have now the uncomfortable and recurring feeling that, well, fun is also fun.
- Sure, I still like to push myself. But, oh shock, I now also enjoy taking it easy. Sometimes.

No way round it: I am SLACKING.

I largely blame the current situation on my husband. He helped me go through months of inactivity. He then went to great lengths to find sports I could enjoy while I still couldn't run. Like signing up with me for a triathlon swimming course, despite the fact his free style technics initally sucked so much he was sometimes going backwards. He has since then improved greatly, and done his first triathlon in a very honourable time, while I was stuck on the sideline doing the whale, which I enjoyed only moderately (but that's another story)... Bottom line is, we started doing a lot of other sports, and no matter how one sliced it, that meant less running.

I also blame it on Annecy and living in the Alps. I mean, the place is simply an outdoor freaks' paradise, the kind who makes you want to have a seven-day weekend every weekend. So, of course, by the time we have gone cycling, swimming in the lake, hiking, climbing, alpine/cross/back-country skiing, we get sometimes a bit short of time for running.

Last but not least, I blame it on Malo. Not that he prevents me from running. In fact, he went on every single one of my runs when I was pregnant, and although I would admit he then did not have much of a choice, I like to think he enjoyed it. Since he was born, we have also gone on a fair numbers of runs, my little partner comfortably sleeping in his Chariot. It is just that, sometimes... how to say this...  I am quite happy just getting a shorter run in and spend the time playing with him instead. Or, whenever we go running together, enjoying the view, the sun, or simply the time outside with my son instead of trying to gain these elusive few seconds off, or adding a mile to last week's route. OK, that's not every time, but still, that's a sure change from my former running regimen.

So, slacking away, then.  But then,  I hear Martin reminding me what kind of total nightmare-on-(running) legs I was back in the old days, either running, or if not, thinking about it, 7 days a week, 365 days a year.  Then I am thinking: could it be that I am not slacking but just better at chilling out? Now, that would be some news. Such a big change that would be. Better put on my running shoes and go for a run, see if it helps me clarify the situation...

It is bad, but it could be worse (just).

I am feeling a bit depressed today. OK, truth be told, I am feeling super down, right at the very bottom of a big, deep, dark, hole.

Why? Because I have not run for a whole 10 days. And because I am ill, which means the 10 days will turn into more. How many more, I just don't want to know, since, see above, I am already at the bottom of my hole.

What happened? Well, it all started well: we got a lot of snow in Annecy. First, it was all good news: we went running in powder snow, we went cross-country skiing, we even ran to watch other cross-country-skiing, with Malo in the Chariot.

Then it all got bad.

The weather got warmer, the snow melted, the weather got colder again, the melted snow turned into ice. Which means that for an entire week it was just not possible to run on the pavement with Malo, because it was so slippery, and not possible either to take him along on our normal off road routes, which had become too bumpy because of the churned icy snow. To make things worse, the poor guy had caught a nasty throat infection. And I may be a dedicated runner, but, for my sins, I am even more of a mother hen, so no running in the cold for us!

I thought things would get better over the weekend. It should have: on Saturday we got a baby-sitter to look after Malo for the morning while we went cross-country skiing (did I mention we're really getting into this cross-country skiing thing?). All started well:
Beautiful day, on one of my favourite spots in Haute Savoie: check.
Not too many people (did I also mention I am anti-social, especially when in the outdoors?): check.
Having fun doing sports with my husband (although, man, do I hate it he is so much faster than me): check.

Problem is, sometimes during the week, I had managed to catch Malo's throat infection. As a result, I was weak, I was slow, I was struggling. I did not even manage to look good on the only photo we took of our outing, although I may just decide this is due to Martin's absence of photographic skills that day: bad for his ego, but so much better for mine.

But the worst was to come. On our way up there, my ears had started feeling really painful, and they got worse on the way back down, resulting in a sleepless night, and a Sunday feeling miserable, and of course not being able to exercise.

To cut a long story short, and as if the above was not enough, this has now worsened into a sinus and tooth infection. Barely walking around in the flat sends horribly painful vibrations on the side of my face, so I don't even want to think about running. Or rather I do think about it (a lot), but that's the only thing I can do.

So here I was until a couple of hours ago, feeling very, very sorry for myself.

Then I went to the post office. This in itself is another very sad story, because I have had to send back my beloved Polar back to the manufacturer (how will I now know how many miles and elevation I do when running? - Oh wait, I cannot run, can I?).

The post office lady was looking bored and obese. Then she started talking, and it became clear she was also a sure candidate for throat cancer because of heavy smoking. Which suddenly made me - me with my bruises, my s*** up ligaments, my throat, sinus and tooth infections - feel suddenly pretty healthy. Oh, and make it lucky, too.