I’ve always seen myself as a bit of a thrill-seeker. As a child, I cut my teeth on many a big roller coaster in the United States on family holidays and was the first to volunteer for things like abseiling, rock climbing, or white-water rafting. I started horse riding at the age of nine and, for the next 26 years, I couldn’t get enough of galloping through forests, across fields, and over show jumps. I’d had my fair share of falls, too, hitting the deck more times than I could count, but always dusted myself off and got back up.
In my early 30s, I even tried my hand at rugby, launching myself full force into the thrill of tackling and, despite breaking my ankle so badly that the snap could be heard on the sideline of a match, I still came back the next season for more. (Although I decided it might be best to draw a line under my rugby career when I dislocated my shoulder three times.)
Since I became a mum, my white-knuckle ways have taken a bit of a back seat, and I’m much more conscious of ways my boys can injure themselves, jumping off things or doing something risky that I might have done as a youngster. But while my life is less punctuated by daredevil moments, I still like to think of myself as a gung-ho thrill-seeker at heart who would happily do a skydive or bungee jump given the opportunity. However, what I’ve come to realise is that, at the age of 42, my perception and reality don’t always align, in much the same way I still think the 1990s were 10 years ago. If your mind is stuck in the same groove as mine, then I regret to inform you that the 1990s were 30 years ago and if my beloved Back to the Future was remade today, (do not do it, Hollywood) Marty McFly would be going back to the year 1995.
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This all hit home very recently when I stood on top of La Tour Infernale (The Towering Inferno) 13m up in the trees, ready to hurl myself into the air, down a 130m-long zipline with my five- and eight-year-old boys, on holiday in France.
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My two children were leaping with excitement and probably a small percentage of fear as they got their harnesses fitted. From the ground looking up, the top of the tower was high, but not off-putting. If anything, I was excited to get to indulge my inner thrill-seeker again, after a few years in the slow lane. It had probably been a good 10 years since I had done anything like this.
We got our safety briefing and walked up the long spiral tree staircase, leaving my other half on terra firma. We paused every now and then mid-climb as the people in front had their turn, to sounds of thrilled screams.
“This is going to be so cool, Mum!” beamed my eight-year-old.
“Mummy, I’m sooooo excited, but also a little bit nervous,” chimed in my five-year-old.
“No need to be nervous, guys, it’s going to be brilliant. I cannot wait,” I assured, as we inched closer to the top of the tree tower. Behind us we could hear some children starting to get a little upset at the prospects of reaching the top. I focused on trying to quell my own anxiety over my children’s safety rather than worry about my own fears. I was an adrenaline junkie after all, right?
Giving birth to two babies with big heads in the space of three years was always going to leave its mark
As our turn approached, my boys dutifully headed over to their spots on the three-person-wide zipline and followed the instructions of the guide. I had been so focused on making sure they were both okay to go, that it only really hit me that it was our turn once they were hooked on. I walked over to the wire and looked down at the ground below me. Suddenly I felt more nervous than excited, which was all wrong. There was always an element of anxiety in these things, but it had never before outweighed my excitement.
What was happening here? I wasn’t afraid of heights or a jolt of adrenaline. Were my thrill-seeking days behind me after all? Had I left it too long to seek some adventures? Was I past it? Surely not.
Puzzled at my reaction, I watched my children whizz off the tower and shriek with delight on their descent to the bottom at light speed, while I remained standing there as if I didn’t know where I was or what I was supposed to be doing.
“Go!” the instructor impatiently yelled at me, motioning to the ground. Dutifully I hurled myself off the edge, hoping to regain my glee midway down.
Sure enough, I opened my eyes and yelled “Woo-hoo”. I absolutely loved it, and was relieved that my random blip had passed. Yet as I made my way to the ground, I couldn’t ignore that physically it all felt very different from my pre-children days of thrill-seeking. The truth was that while my spirit was more than willing, my pelvic floor was weak.
All my years of horse riding probably took their toll, and giving birth to two babies with big heads in the space of three years was always going to leave its mark. But the most damaging thing of all was getting almost no education on how important my pelvic floor was and how to look after it. I was probably in my 20s before I heard people talking about kegels, and I didn’t really pay much attention. Oh, how I wish I had because I never truly understood the importance of my pelvic floor until it took a battering.
Still, over the next five days, I happily went on multiple ziplines, across forests and over lakes, ariel adventures in trees, over suspended bridges, ladders, monkey bridges, wobbly logs, and cargo nets that would put Ireland’s Fittest Family to shame and you couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
By what felt like the 20th zipline on our last day, and umpteenth of the whole holiday, I felt like I’d got my thrill-seeking groove back somewhat. I’d managed to just about hold the pelvic floor together, I hadn’t dislocated my shoulder for a fourth time or let down my eight-year-old son with any more strange and sudden onsets of acrophobia.
As I swung my legs over the side of the final zip line, I hesitated for a moment, more from utter exhaustion than anything else.
“You can do this, Mum, you’re doing great. You’ve got this,” cheered my eight-year-old from the tower on the other side of the lake.
There are moments in parenthood that take you off guard and there’s nothing more humbling when you hear the mini versions of yourself trot out your own words with the exact same inflections and mannerisms as you. Often, it’s the cringeworthy stuff that rolls off their tongue; parroting your giving-out style or God forbid the odd swear word or two. But I felt an undeniable sense of pride hearing the same words of encouragement I give to my kids, come out of my eight-year-old’s mouth just when I needed it.
By the end of our adventures, I was fit for nothing but sitting in traction for a week, and felt muscles I didn’t even know existed, but I can confirm that I am still very much a thrill-seeker and that doing your kegels is really bloody important.
