Like most new parents, we had grand plans for how “normal” our post-baby life would be. Inspired by our remarkably portable niece, we imagined going places in the evenings, taking her on long excursions during the day, having spontaneous adventures…

Yeah. About that. As it happens, M. very much likes to sleep in her crib, thankyouverymuch, and not really in other places. And I can’t really say I blame her, since the world is a pretty interesting place. But between her preference for sleeping at home and my logistical and emotional need for some semblance of routine from an early date (about which more later), things have looked, well, different than we expected.

But we had one cherished dream for our post-baby life that I’d been unwilling to give up on, even though it’s been on the shelf for a while: taking M. rock climbing with us. D. and I met in a climbing gym more than seven years ago, and through injuries (some serious) and other interruptions, it’s been a major part of our lives (and indeed, has been a part of mine since I started doing it competitively in high school). With precautions and my doctor’s okay, I continued climbing some until I was about 20 weeks pregnant, and I hadn’t been back since then. (D. has been in and out with injuries since then, but has been back a few times since M. was born.)

And then finally, yesterday, it happened. We wrapped up work a little early, picked M. up and headed off to the climbing gym. We alternated playing with the baby and working on boulder problems for a few hours, introducing her to old friends and introducing our muscles to old ways of moving. And when she eventually needed to eat, I found myself leaning against a back wall of the gym, nursing a smiling baby, unable to stop smiling myself.

It wasn’t the greatest night of climbing I’ve ever had. We’re still figuring out the kinks of getting both of us enough climbing time, and my shoes are mindbogglingly tight on my relaxin-stretched feet. Lateral movement on overhangs is… slightly jarring, a searing reminder that I need to keep working on my core strength as my body continues to knit itself back together. But my arms are sore in a euphoria-inducing way, and I felt alive, and alert, and blissfully happy.

But it wasn’t just the pump in my forearms and the thrill of being off the ground that made our night, it really was the experience of being there together. Of getting to feel physically more like my prepregnancy self, sure, but also of getting to feel like the kind of family we’ve always said we wanted to be. The kind who shares the things we love with our daughter, who blends her smoothly into our adult lives (as cute as it is to watch her focus so, so hard on the toys on her exersaucer). I know this may only get harder as she continues hurtling down the path towards being a toddler, which is all the more reason to push myself out of my comfort zone of chaos-avoidance to help us live the kind of life we want to now, before things change again.

Who knows, maybe I’ll have to make an exception to my shopping ban for a new pair of climbing shoes (and to do some research on kid-sized harnesses).

Do you play sports or enjoy outdoor activities with your kids, or have memories of doing so with your own parents?

{ photographic proof of a night well spent, my #febphotoaday self-portrait }

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