Julie Jay: Much like escalators, I find this hot summer weather utterly terrifying

Pic: iStock

I have spent most of the past week sweating profusely due to the fact west Kerry is currently hotter than parts of Spain. 

If I had a euro for the number of times somebody in the street has joked about ‘Costa Del Dingle’, I’d have exactly €9. Also, please note I will be opening with this top-shelf gag at gigs for the foreseeable future.

I’m sure I found the heat just as tricky when pregnant with Ted in the summer of 2020, but this time it feels a lot more oppressive, probably because now I am pushing a buggy and trying to dip in and out of this thing called ‘work’. Luckily for my husband and me, our careers were derailed during lockdown, meaning we had little to focus on other than baby-baking and getting through five seasons of The Wire.

While some expectant mothers play classical music in the hope it will ignite the musical spark in their progeny, we consumed so much of The Wire that no doubt Ted, while in the womb, assumed he was headed straight for the mean streets of West Baltimore and must have been pleasantly surprised at landing instead into the mean streets of west Kerry.

As a certified sneachta ball, I don’t do well in the heat at the best of times. But this week, as I headed to my 28-week scan, positively pumping sweat, I made a silent commitment to never throw out a pesto jar without rinsing it fully again (I promise I am only this level of terrible human on a very rare occasion). Climate change is real, and while that rare Irish person who can tan naturally — also known in secondary school as ‘popular’ — is basking in it all, much like escalators, I find this hot weather utterly terrifying.

The scan goes well, which is all that matters. The baby is average sized, which surprises me given that Ted was a bit of a Michael Jordan at this point in my last pregnancy. The sonographer also tells me the baby is once again in an awkward position, with the legs down. It doesn’t surprise me. For the last few weeks, it has felt like I’ve been continually kicked in the vaginal cavity because, as it turns out, there is a tiny human continually kicking me in the vaginal cavity.

Before I go, I touch base with the diabetes clinic, with one very nice doctor reminding me to keep going with the diet. “Around this time, a lot of women drop off, so just make sure to stick to it,” she says, and it’s like she knows I broke out yesterday and had a ‘99’.

I am about to confess everything when thankfully a nurse interrupts the conversation and saves me from myself. I am reminded that as a consummate people-pleaser, I would crumble within the first 30 seconds of any police interrogation. Again, I think back to my first pregnancy, when I stuck to the diet religiously and didn’t have half the chocolate-flavoured treats I’ve been indulging in this time round.

Of course, there’s the second pregnancy element, when people tend to relax the rules a bit, but I think the intensity of covid made everything a bit, well, scarier. Back in 2020, I genuinely believed if I had a Flake, a local counsellor would have me thrown in jail (my concept of local politics is still pretty feudal).

It is surreal being back in the hospital with no mask and seeing people and faces, people who have known me and helped me for three years, and it is only now I am discovering what a lovely chin they have.

It barely seems believable we have come so far, especially when I think back to this time three years ago, with Fred loitering with the rest of the dads in the car park like Don Draper, as we went off about our ‘women’s business’. It was all a bit state of Gilead there for a moment, and not just because I was wearing a red cape and bonnet, that’s just my vibe.

As I survey the new chins around me I start to think about giving birth in a post-Covid world. Being in the hospital this time will no doubt be very different considering the closest Fred got to us in the maternity ward the last time was standing on the other side of the window like a peeping tom. Indeed, this labour will be different as Fred will hopefully be there for the tough bit when I need to throw my hypnobirthing book at his head.

Landing back home with my scan pictures, Ted looks distinctly unimpressed.

“It’s the baby in Mammy’s tummy,” I say, and Ted squints at the photograph and shakes his head.

“Yucky! Mammy’s baby’s nose broken,” he announces.

I insist the baby’s nose is just fine and that the baby is less a one-woman enterprise and more of a mammy and daddy joint endeavour.

“It’s Daddy’s baby, too,” I say, and Ted shakes his head and throws the scan picture behind his head.

“No, not Daddy’s baby — Mammy’s baby,” Ted replies, and I think maybe being born in a Don Draper era of daddies waiting in car parks has rubbed off on him.

It’s all getting a little confusing between his retro response and West Baltimore accent.

“Clean up, please, Mammy!” Ted immediately adds upon spotting some spilt milk on the counter.

Clearly, this mini Mad Man is beyond conversion, so I make a mental note only to play Beyoncé and Lizzie in the house in the future. I will not stop until I make this impending baby a feminist, in the interests of balance.