Julie Jay: I am officially expecting baby number two, and we couldn’t be happier

Julie Jay and Fred Cooke with their son Ted. They are expecting their second baby.

Julie Jay

COMEDIAN

Well, it turns out the man pumping my petrol was right all those weeks ago when he congratulated me on my rounded tummy. I am officially expecting number two, and we couldn’t be happier.

To be pregnant again has been the most wonderful surprise, but we’ve been cautious about announcing it too, because if life teaches us anything it is not to get too far ahead of ourselves. Four months in, it feels right to tell people, especially as my bump has gone from ‘is she/isn’t she?’ to fellow comedians presuming I am practically ready to pop on stage and manning a mop and bucket accordingly.

I say getting pregnant was a surprise, but it’s always slightly less of a surprise to the mammy who has some vague knowledge of how these things work. ‘Vague’ is the operative word here, given that most of us still know more about the amoeba’s reproductive process than our own, thanks largely to glaring information gaps within the 1990’s Leaving Cert biology syllabus.

Whatever about me being taken aback, Fred practically has to be resuscitated when I announce the news. I draw my husband a quick diagram and explain what happens when two adults love each other very much, and eventually, the penny drops: we really are expecting. Neither of us can quite believe our luck. If I’m honest, it still doesn’t feel real, and I know it won’t until we hopefully bring home our latest west Kerry addition.

Once we have a healthy first scan under our belt and Mammy is armed with her gestational diabetes equipment, we decide to tell Ted that we have conceived a spare for the heir.

“We won’t use any confusing analogies,” I tell my husband.

He responds by informing Ted: “Mammy has a bun in the oven.”

Ted’s face lights up. “Ted loves cake,” he says.

I break the news that, rather than an actual bun in the oven, Mammy has a baby in her tummy. Ted furrows his brow and folds his arms like a dairy farmer down the mart.

“So, Ted, no cake,” he asks, visibly perplexed.

Julie Jay and Fred Cooke on their wedding day.

Such is his disappointment, I nip across the road to buy him a bun (we live in the vicinity of shops now, which is a whole other column).

Fred has to head off to a gig, so he bids us a farewell so dramatic it is as if he is leaving to work on an oil rig for a three-month period.

I think the news of the impending baby has made him slightly sentimental in his old age, especially given his usual wont of heading to Dublin on a Monday morning for filming on a Friday, week after week.

Alone with my wild-haired buachaillín, I sit beside him on the couch as he licks his icing. After a few moments, I ask Ted what he thinks about another baba joining the Three Bears.

Ted considers this. Suddenly he leans over and lies on my belly.

“Hi, baba,” he says, and it takes everything in me not to cry.

When I discovered I was pregnant, one of my first considerations was how I would love any other human being as much as I love Ted. Only last week, somebody told me that she too wondered the same thing when she was expecting her second and articulated this fear to a friend.

“You love them differently,” the friend had said, and hearing those words second-hand, suddenly it all made sense to me.

We often talk of love like it is a singular thing. Most of us have felt some form of romantic love for more than one person in our lives, and while the name of the emotion is the same, the feeling never is. It is always different, not lesser than, but different, and that doesn’t dilute its power the second time round. I’m guessing this is true for parental love, too.

That night, I awake to find Ted at our bedroom door.

“Ted sleep in Mammy’s bed”, he informs me, climbing in beside me and asserting his rightful role as little spoon. Daddy is staying over at his gig tonight, so we have plenty of legroom.

“Ted, when the baby comes, the baby will also be sleeping beside Mammy”, I whisper to him in the dark because it’s good to paint a picture of the future now, so nobody is caught on the hop.

Ted sits up momentarily, his wild curly head silhouette slightly terrifying.

“No room in Ted’s bed for baby,” he asserts.

“But this is Mammy’s and Daddy’s bed”, I insist, at which Ted raises a finger, places it to my lips and says: “Sssh, Mammy. Ted’s bed.”

Without pausing for breath he adds: “Oh, I need milk.”

Handing me his empty bottle on cue, he lies back down, grinning broadly, pulling his duvet into himself.

Sleepily, I make my way down to the kitchen, giving the bump a couple of rubs en route. When I return, I hand him his midnight snack, as requested (his pseudo-surprised response: “Yay! Milk! Thank you, Mammy,” never gets old).

Clambering into the tiny corner of the bed Ted has left for me, I wonder when I will officially get my bed back. At this rate, I think we will be doing well to get Ted into his own leaba by the debs, which, psst, don’t tell anyone, is totally fine by me.