Julie Jay: I can’t wait to meet you, baby — a letter to my unborn child

Dear Baby,

First of all, thank you for choosing me to be your Mammy. I know you could have chosen Kourtney Kardashian, so I really appreciate you taking a chance on a redhead with dubious organisational skills. While I can’t promise a mansion in Malibu, at least by going with us as your first choice, you won’t be subjected to Kourtney and Travis’s PDAs. Your dad tried to hold my hand in public once and I nearly called the guards.

You were so wanted — we can’t believe you’re nearly here. You are a dream come true — and don’t forget it.

When we were expecting your big brother, Ted, things were a little different. We had all the bits way in advance, mostly because it was covid, and your dad and I had little else to do other than get ready for his arrival and go for walks and wonder if we would ever work again. It was a time of real uncertainty, not just because we didn’t know if we would be any good at this parenting thing but also because nobody knew when it was all going to end. We didn’t know if normality would ever resume, and now here we are, up to our necks in normality and covid feels like a dream.

Of course, financially speaking, we were probably never as well off (350 quid a week — as a self-employed comedian, I’ve never felt so affluent), but Mammy has a ton of tricks up her sleeve to make sure you will always be looked after. We’ve also put Daddy to work like he’s never worked before, and he has metamorphosised into a one-man-band travelling circus, complete with a stainless steel travel mug of coffee, which can only mean one thing: He’s all business.

I want you to know that I am a good mammy. I might not be the best prepared, dressed, or presented, but I will love you so much that your first words will probably be something along the lines of “Mammy, I need personal space, please”.

I don’t always get it right. I never wear the right jacket, and the house is never up to scratch, no matter how hard I try to get on top of it. But I know I’m not a terrible parent because your little brother and I have such craic, I couldn’t possibly be failing that hard.

Your daddy — I have to say — is one of the best. He is horrendously disorganised and chaotic, and his timekeeping is up there with Lana Del Ray arriving 30 minutes late for her Glastonbury set, but he is a brilliant daddy. In fact, he is so good I already worry he might upstage me.

I am so happy I picked him to have babies with because I know he will love and mind you and how wonderful he will be with you. The only downside is that he will most certainly subject you to his culinary adventures, but trust me when I say his curry pasta is a lot tastier than it sounds.

When you land into the world, there will probably be a lot of bright lights and surgical masks and it might all feel a little overwhelming after enjoying your personal waterpod these last nine months. 

Please don’t be scared of all the new faces — one of the first you will see will be mine, and I can guarantee I won’t be looking my best, given the circumstances.

Take comfort in the fact it is nothing a shower and some makeup won’t remedy, and I will probably never look as monstrous again. Unless it’s the morning after a night of tapas with your adopted aunties, then I probably will look equally banshee-like, but other than that our initial introduction will be about as bad as it gets. From there, the only way will be up, I promise.

Ted is so excited to meet you, and despite his insistence that he hopes you are a girl, we know he really doesn’t mind whether his sibling is a brother or a sister, just as long as you’re here. (And that you like trains and Lego — that much is non-negotiable). He is such a kind, empathetic little boy and I know he will be a fantastic brother because his excitement is positively infectious.

So if at any point you see a curly-headed boy towering over you asking you a gaggle of questions, don’t be alarmed: it’s just Ted in paparazzi mode. There’s no need to worry — we’ll fob him off with a “no comment” until you get your bearings.

Before I had you, and before I had Ted, I thought silly things were important, but now I know you are all that matters. And don’t tell my agent but being a parent is — without a doubt — the best and most rewarding gig in town.

Whatever happens, know that I am here. My love for you is not contingent on you liking a certain sport, being good at school, or living your life a certain way. You don’t have to be perfect, or even close to perfect, to be perfectly imperfect to me. And if I forget to tell you later, thank you for being a wonderful child. I am so proud of you.

I better go, as Daddy’s curry pasta is boiling. If this latest concoction doesn’t induce your arrival, nothing will.

Love you to the moon and back,

Mammy x