Julie Jay: At the risk of sounding peak notions, mammies can dream too

In becoming a mammy again, you do lose yourself, a little. It is impossible not to become subsumed by the tsunami force about to hit your life, and that is the fear. It is a fear that wills us not to be forgotten

IN my pregnancies to date, there always comes a point where I feel like that Back to the Future photograph, fading into oblivion as Marty McFly wrestles with his mother trying to seduce him (for Gen Zers who have never seen the movie, trust me, it’s less oedipal than it sounds).

In my bid to avoid being erased from the comedy community post-baby, I have said ‘yes’ to the opening of every relatively unimportant envelope and expressed a determination to run myself ragged — the likes of which hasn’t been seen since I insisted on organising my hen party. (Control freak? Moi? Never.)

This week, however, I was halted in my manic tracks. I felt as though I was living Christina Aguilera’s noughties classic ‘Genie in a Bottle’ in reverse, as my heart said ‘let’s go’ and my body said ‘no thank you’. Popping into the maternity ward for my scheduled scan on Tuesday, I complained of stomach cramps and general wooziness and was told — perish the thought — to rest up a bit.

Because denial is not just the default position of Irish mothers when their son is accused of a crime, I pay little heed to this and continue as planned, proceeding to ring Fred before I head for the road to Dublin.

“So I’m off to do that gig,” I tell him. 

And Fred is horrified: “Julie, who’s MCing tonight? Because he’ll probably be MCing the birth of the baby, so I hope you like him."

"This is madness,” Fred says, in a rare múinteoir moment. “Go home to bed. Nobody is going to care you cancelled.”

Fred has a point — the MC in question is a very positive person who always looks on the bright side. That is to say, he is not the kind of person you want by your side during an episiotomy.

“But Dublin needs me,” I retort, knowing full well that the battle is already lost.

It is then the wave of disappointment washes over me. I feel strangely sad about not doing the gig, a gig that is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things, a gig which probably wouldn’t even have covered my costs of getting there in the first place.

I'm quickly replaced, and it's a reminder that there are many people just waiting for the call to step in and do your job, and maybe if I’m honest, there is that fear they will somehow do it better than you. That by becoming a mammy again, you will suddenly become replaceable permanently and superfluous to requirements.

I know I am not alone in worrying if I will still have some semblance of a job when I am ready to hit the ground running after the birth. And really the psychology behind such a feeling is fairly self-explanatory. Because in becoming a mammy again, you do lose yourself a little. It is impossible not to become subsumed by the tsunami force about to hit your life, and that is the fear. A fear that wills us not to be forgotten.

I know I will be tethered to our much-wanted, much-anticipated baby in a way that my husband, who works in the same industry, will not. I hope to breastfeed again, so in turning down an October gig in Wexford recently, I was less put off by the trans-country trek than I was by envisaging myself pulling into laybys to pump en route. It nearly killed me to type the rejection email, but I knew it was the right thing to do.

The reality is different for women, and as much as I want to say yes to everything, I have realised that with work, saying 'yes' to everything means saying 'no' to myself and my family. And here’s the twist: as much as I want success, I want to be happy too and not spread myself so thin I make a Ryvita slice look like a deep-pan pizza.

When Ted was a few months old, a comedy peer commented that I hadn’t 'had much going on professionally' during lockdown. Without a doubt, it took the wind out of my sails. For months after the fact, I mentally dissected the comment, tried to journal my way to a conclusion as to why they were wrong, watched motivational videos on TikTok, and shared slightly passive-aggressive motivational quotes.

But they were right. I hadn’t furthered my career much while the world was in crisis. Not even a little bit. The last time around, I hadn’t had much going on professionally at all. In fact, I had something better happening in my life - I had Ted. The person who would give me my best chapter yet.

When I catch myself in these moments, worrying I will be erased from the industry and on the back foot in comedy, I think of how having Ted has, instead, spurred me on. How being a mammy gives me a reason to succeed because it’s not just for me, but for him too. How in having him, I want to prove people wrong: that as a mammy, I can still do stuff and — at the risk of sounding peak notions here — have dreams.

If anyone tells you otherwise, just share a passive-aggressive inspirational quote or two. Because, trust me, nothing says ‘this mammy is over it’, like a loopy font and a white background.