Julie Jay: No lacy undies in my hospital bag this time around 

It is that time of the pregnancy again. I am giving Hamlet a run for his money when it comes to the levels of procrastination I am demonstrating in relation to my hospital bag.

Indeed, the last few medical appointments have revolved mostly around my lack of prep.

“Is the hospital bag in the car?” the midwife asks, and of course a lesser human would lie, but being the pillar of integrity that I am, I have to be honest.

“No,” I say, but because I want this midwife to love me and everyone to love me, I follow it up swiftly with an empty promise.

“I’m definitely getting onto that today,” I say, and I am about as convincing as an Irish husband when he promises to organise a family event single-handedly.

My last hospital bag was an utter disaster. Because Ted landed into the world in the middle of an Indian summer, I had ridiculously cute but completely inappropriate clothing for him to don for Instagram.

Back in 2020, looking around at the other newborns wrapped up all snug, I quickly realised I had already failed my son and accosted Fred in the hospital foyer with orders to get Ted warmer babygros.

I’m not sure where I thought I was going, but underwear-wise, I was either feeling highly optimistic about what I would be getting up to in hospital or in complete denial as to how in bits I would be after the birth.

Not thinking things through, I had packed some lovely lace undergarments — my pre-pregnancy attire — presuming that my body would snap back to its former glory once Ted exited my nether regions.

This time around, I am determined to remedy my past mistakes. I have a freezer bag stuffed with my most appalling knickers, fraying and grey, with holes in all the wrong places.

“Will I throw out this bag of rags?” Fred asks, and I snatch the item from his hands.

“They’re not rags, they’re my hospital knickers,” I inform him, and Fred immediately looks relieved at knowing I’m not planning on embarking on an affair with a hospital consultant.

An Irish influencer had given birth the week prior to Ted’s arrival and had appeared on the socials looking perfectly coiffed, relaxed, extensions flawless, make-up on point, and positively angelic in her white linen nightie. Because I am a sucker for product placement, I took this as a sign that I too should purchase a white linen nightie, that this was indeed the outfit I needed to wear when delivering my firstborn into the world. Needless to say, when the labour finally came to pass, it was all less positively angelic and more Stephen King.

Post-birth, the nightie resembled something out of the horror movie Carrie, when the teenage protagonist appears at prom covered in red paint and everyone runs screaming.

Even my bag was like something you’d take to a hen — decidedly cheery and lightweight and definitely lacking, especially as I ended up staying in hospital much longer than I had anticipated.

Though the bag for baby number two hasn’t been purchased, let alone packed, I have been trying to get ready and be better prepared than I was last time around.

Just yesterday, I let myself peruse the baby section of a well-known department store and picked up some clothes. Touching the little booties and hats, I couldn’t help but feel all the emotions — a baby, landing soon, a new head to spend my time sniffing and supporting.

Of course, we have so many of these bits already so I don’t want to go too overboard, but equally, I want this baby to know it is as special as the first, so I allow myself to run amok a little.

It is the most excited I have been for a long time, but there is also a tinge of guilt.

Should I have done this sooner? Have I done enough to let this baby know we can’t wait to meet them? Do they know they are so loved I am willing to splash out an astronomical amount on a Peppa Pig ensemble?

Meandering over to the beauty section, I pick up a toothbrush, a new loofah, and teeny tiny toiletries, which automatically get me giddy because nothing says ‘holidays’ like a miniature lemon shower gel that will most definitely burn the fanny off of you.

I spend a ridiculous amount of time deciding whether or not I deserve new slippers. Dear reader, if you too are currently expecting and weighing up if you deserve new flip-flops for the hospital shower, let me tell you something: You do. 

And here’s the twist — you don’t have to produce a new life to justify buying yourself a new lip balm. Life is hard enough without having to deal with chapped lips on top of spiralling energy bills.

After I’ve bought my little bits, I treat myself to a cup of tea and do a stock-take of what’s in my shopping bags, letting the prospect of a new arrival sink in. 

A new person to love and to make mistakes with. The hospital bag might not be as much of a disaster this time, but I’m still going to have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

The dark towels, face cloths, and comfy PJs are at the ready, as are tissues for the inevitable tears. 

I have dispensed with the hypno-birthing book (breathing a baby out of your vagina is a nice idea in theory but when that first contraction hits I will be screaming for an epidural like a teenager screams for a selfie at a Picture This concert).

The one thing I know for sure is I never want to see that freezer bag of grey knickers again. Also, if you see me carrying a gym ball into the Tralee General labour ward, please note I am bringing it purely to throw at Fred’s head when he asks permission to go to the vending machine. 

Lip balms may be optional, but having an item to fling at the person who got you into this is a feminist necessity.