Julie Jay: The gown is on quicker than you can say ‘I forgot to do my bikini line’

IT’S about midnight when the cramps hit. Fred has the audacity to sleep on as I nudge him awake intermittently.

“I’m not in labour,” I clarify to my semi-conscious husband. “But it’s definitely not far off.”

As night becomes morning and the day goes on, the pains are coming more frequently but still, I am fully sure I’m not even close to giving birth. As such, I drag Fred on walks around town and for takeaway coffees, squeezing the proverbial out of his hand every time I have an ouchie.

“I really think you’re in labour,” Fred says, but I dismiss him quickly, because if Dr Quinn Medicine Woman taught me anything it is that men have contributed absolutely nothing to the canon of medical knowledge.

Numerous texts come in from friends who have spotted me in the car looking pale and drawn, all with the same question: “Julie, are you in labour?”

I poo-poo the suggestion, but at four o’clock I admit to Fred that I think it’s time. 

“I’m not in active labour,” I qualify. “But best to get in before the storm hits.”

And so we drive to Tralee, me telling Fred to take it easy on the turns — because even in labour I am a passenger princess. 

Storm Betty moves in and as we arrive at the hospital thunder roars, adding a suitable element of drama to it all.

I shuffle to the labour ward and it turns out I am indeed in labour. Who could have seen it coming? 

At 6cm dilated the gown is on quicker than you can say ‘I forgot to do my bikini line’ and we are making our way to the delivery room. Fred’s nerves have kicked in and he is treating the whole thing like a comedy gig.

“This is the best Tinder date I’ve ever been on,” he says.

But as the next contraction hits — a lot more intense now — I utter but one syllable: “No” and my husband forgoes the gags.

“Any birth plans?” the very nice midwife asks.

“Epidural,” I respond.

“I see you’ve got a gym ball.”

I remove the gas and air tube momentarily and reiterate: “Epidural.”

“Have you thought about pain relief?”

I have gone up a decibel now. “Epidural,” I squawk.

Safe to say I make it clear I will be going for the top-shelf drugs here, and as we await my pain relief of choice Fred is subjected to a rapid-fire quiz round which has him quaking in his boots.

Within 10 pushes, the baby is here, landing into our lives at 21:24. Picture: iStock

“Just some bits and bobs — what’s your other child’s date of birth?” the same lovely midwife asks, and I listen as Fred proceeds to give the wrong date and year.

“And Julie’s birthday?” Again, Fred gets this wrong and I remove my gas tube to correct him. 

It is when he then gets our wedding anniversary incorrect I can take it no more: “For God’s sake Fred, have you ever met me? People will think this is a fake marriage!”

I deliver this dressing down through gritted teeth as the next contraction hits.

“Well if you have all the answers, when’s my birthday?” Fred asks this as if he is Chris Tarrant and this is the million-pound question, rather than a pretty basic fact most of his Facebook friends could reel off on the spot.

I give his birthday, the time and hospital where he was born, the date of his christening and all three of his middle names — including his reason for picking James as his confirmation name (as a massive Michael Jackson fan he wanted the initials MJ).

At that moment the midwife announces it’s nearly epidural time, so Fred takes off for a walk to the vending machine as I praise the Lord for anaesthesiologists.

The epidural hits and all is right with the world. I am Mother Earth, the picture of Zen, the goddess of tranquillity. Within 10 pushes, the baby is here, landing into our lives at 21:24. 

A boy, in all of his newborn pudgy glory. I am ecstatic, as is Fred. 

The elation that comes with holding that little person to your chest — this child who is of your body and yours alone — is like no other feeling in this world.

We study his little face and throw names out, seeing what is going to stick. We have some Michelin-star tea and toast and Fred leaves around 1am, as baby and I get a spin back to the ward.

The next day the midwife who delivered our baba drops in and I tell her we have decided to call him Johnny James — JJ for short.

“What about Gerry?” she asks.

“Gerry?” I repeat, befuddled.

“Last night you kept calling him Gerry,” she explains, and suddenly my vivid dreams which featured Gerry Hutch and Gerry Ryan make a lot more sense.

I put my Gerry era down to the painkillers the night before and proceed to send out the texts announcing JJ’s arrival.

The post-natal ward in Tralee General is so quiet that the nurses have time for lovely chats with me — and I invite anyone and everyone to give my nipple a squeeze in a bid to get the milk going.

By the time Saturday night has rolled around, JJ has been in my world for 24 hours, and the butterflies in my tummy are still fluttering, though that admittedly could also be my uterus contracting.

After nine months of dread, this second labour turned out to be a doddle in comparison to the first, and my only slight regret is insisting on the epidural when I had surprised myself in getting so far on my own. 

As women, we underestimate ourselves and our collective well of resilience constantly. But it is also nice to have some medically assisted Zen after it turns out your husband has absolutely no idea when you were born.

Stitches? I had a few, but what a small price to pay. Because after so long waiting for him to arrive, JJ is here, in the world, and it is wonderful.