Julie Jay: Pregnancy update — I am so highly strung I belong in the RTÉ orchestra

Waiting for these scans is like holding your breath, for weeks on end, and the fear can be all-consuming

Julie Jay: “Melt? This is west Kerry, in April. The only thing melting is my head from people asking me ‘where’s the butter’.”

GENERALLY speaking, Ted doesn’t really test my patience, primarily because he also works off some pretty serious privilege. It is almost impossible to be irked by someone with such big blue eyes and gossamer curls.

Even his most unreasonable demands fail to annoy me. At the start of the week, when presented with an evening meal of fish and potatoes, Ted pushes his plate away and demands ice cream for dinner. After tears, protests, and flailing arms, we eventually come to a compromise, and by compromise, I mean we have ice cream for dinner.

Sadly, during these last few weeks of pregnancy, I have been less amenable to other domestic conflicts as they have cropped up. Gone is the Julie of pre-pregnancy yore who was reasonably patient — these days, I am so highly strung I belong in the RTÉ Concert Orchestra.

My husband Fred asks innocuous questions like: “Have you seen my charger?” and I immediately latch onto what, in my mind, constitutes an accusatory tone.

“Why would I take your charger?” I retort, feeling somehow wounded, which is made all the more confusing given that I have, in fact, taken his charger.

After another sleepless night with four of us in the bed (Fred, Ted, myself and my old confidante — the pregnancy pillow), I go for a shower and leave the merry dance of getting Ted dressed to Daddy.

As I am debating whether or not it is a ‘leg shave’ day, Fred hollers from the hall: “Do we have any other pants for Ted? These don’t seem to stay up.”

At this point, for no rational reason, I am quietly seething. For going on a year now, Ted has been pulling his pants up with one hand and reaching for the marmalade jar with another (he has turned into quite the Paddington Bear). Finding pants to fit Ted has been a real problem, given that he is very tall for his age and of a slim disposition.

“That’s just his build,” I shout out, razor in hand and debating whether to shave with or without shaving cream. “And he gets it from your side — it’s like trying to find trousers for Peter Crouch.”

When I hit the kitchen with my freshly shaved legs (only three arteries severed — 30 years later, and I’m getting the hang of this), Fred is opening drawers and clearly on the hunt for something important.

“Are we out of butter?” He poses this question like a man oblivious to the fact he has fired a potentially fatal shot. You can accuse me of a lot of things but never, ever accuse me of being out of butter.

“The butter lives in the press,” I answer, hands on hips, which means serious business.

“But isn’t it going to melt in the press?” Fred asks, and I throw my hands up in a fit of histrionics.

“Melt? This is west Kerry, in April. The only thing melting is my head from people asking me ‘where’s the butter’.”

I am delighted with my play on words, but when Fred, bewildered, asks “which press is the butter press?”, I realise I may have won the battle, but he has won the war.

We are all up and about early because my anatomical baby scan is today. Fred offers to drive and I gladly accept, if only because it gives me a chance to put on some makeup, which, given my current skin condition, is the equivalent of throwing some paint on concrete and hoping for the best. We have to stop for petrol en route so we are — horrifyingly — 10 minutes late, meaning our sonographer has to get right down to business.

Nothing is louder than that initial silence as you wait to hear the news. When she says those most welcome words: “It all looks good,” I start to bawl. I hadn’t realised how worried I was until we were told everything was fine. Waiting for these scans is like holding your breath for weeks, and the fear can be all-consuming.

Afterwards, we treat ourselves to lunch, and I take the opportunity to apologise for my recent shortness.

“I’m sorry for being a bit highly-strung,” I tell Fred.

“Don’t worry,” Fred replies. “It’s a stressful time. Anyway, I’m just happy I didn’t embarrass myself at this scan as I did at Ted’s.”

I have no idea what he is talking about for a moment, and then have a flashback to Ted’s 20-week scan. Because of covid, it was the only scan Fred had been allowed to attend, and he had gotten particularly excited when he spotted Ted on the screen in all his glory.

“Well, I tell you, the apple doesn’t fall from the tree,” Fred announced, delighted.

The sonographer, clearly stifling her laugh beneath her mask, was quick to correct him: “That’s actually the placenta,” she said, and Fred didn’t speak for the rest of the appointment.

On the way home we stop off to buy more butter and I treat myself to some shaving cream — it turns out it’s less of a luxury, more a necessity, and I’ve got the bleeding ankles to prove it.