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.