SOME things you just can't give up when you have a baby.
For us, it was hiking. So even though it was now going to be a great deal harder, we grit our teeth and, with some adaptations, carried on anyway.
We have had to tone it down though - no more high mountains for us (yet), despite meeting some climbers at a wedding who had taken their young babies up several peaks.
No, we are not that extreme. But with some imagination, life on the moors can go on. In fact, Douglas is still young enough to be easily portable, without weighing the same as a grand piano and not insisting on walking at snail's pace (because he can't yet walk).
I started by wandering the fields nearby, with the baby tightly secured facing outwards in his monumentally complicated papousse.
We have ventured out across the moors with him above Holmfirth and Langsett, although it is slow progress. Everyone seems so happy and surprised to see a baby looking back at them, they stop and chat.
Flushed with success, I went on a ramble around Denshaw with the other girls from our ante-natal class.
It took a while before all the babies were fed, changed and holstered but an hour later, we were ready to go.
Part of the walk took us along a main road for a short time.
I would have imagined the motorists must have been rather shocked to see five windswept women walking along the verge, each clutching a small infant to their bellies.
For really big mountain walks, though, nothing beats the power of the grandparents. Taking them on holiday with us is one clever choice, giving us the odd day of freedom to go scrambling up Munros.
We have also cleverly positioned their houses within an hour of both Scotland and Snowdonia, something we will be taking full advantage of in the coming years.
Well, it's good for them to bond with their grandson.
After we bought the big baby backpack, our walks picked up apace.
A recent weekend break near the North York Moors made us feel our old selves again, striding across the moors and managing two seven-mile walks in nippy conditions.
Although we probably overdressed the poor baby in about ten layers, he seemed reasonably happy until after lunch on the first day. A rather necessary nappy change at the top of a blowy escarpment probably left him bereft of good humour. He set to howling for the next 20 minutes which began to dim the enjoyment somewhat.
The only way to rescue the situation was to sing Ten Green Bottles, followed by One Man Went to Mow and finishing with the ultra-repetitive Twelve Days of Christmas. Douglas was happily asleep by this point, but the rest of us were suicidal.
The following day, we stopped halfway round our route to enjoy the hospitality of a handy pub. Douglas needed feeding, so we sat in the sunshine on benches outside, watched by a smiling group of silver-haired ramblers.
Immediately after, while executing another emergency nappy change in near-freezing conditions, the mature ladies crowded round us and for some reason began congratulating me on breastfeeding outdoors.
One of the ladies said pointedly: "I'm a lactation consultant."
I nodded, desperately searching for the correct way to answer this surprising statement.
"Oh, good," was all I could manage. We retreated as fast as we could.