Julie Jay: Public nurse check-ups, like NCT tests, will always have me sweating

Despite never having anything less than an entirely pleasant experience with public health nurses over the years, I always fret that I will be outted as the fraud that I am when appointment time approaches

Part of my nervousness, perhaps, is the overwhelming feeling that I will be outed as the fraud mum that I am, or that one wrong move will see my file placed in the cabinet marked ‘terrible parent’.

Our baby is two. It is hard to believe on one level, and then on another level it isn’t hard to believe at all, because it feels like he’s been here forever.

To celebrate his birthday, I treated him with a trip to the public health nurse, because don’t say I spare any expenses when it comes to the big milestones.

Despite never having anything less than an entirely pleasant experience with a public health nurse, there is something about the experience which always has me sweating. 

Part of my nervousness, perhaps, is the overwhelming feeling that I will be outed as the fraud mum that I am, or that one wrong move will see my file placed in the cabinet marked ‘terrible parent’.

Of course, the only thing more nerve-racking than attending these two-year check-ups is offloading the responsibility to your co-parent and partner, as happened with Number One. While I pranced around Edinburgh Fringe dressed in red latex, clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Number One and his dad stayed behind for a couple of days, during which time they met with the public health nurse.

Number One had been quiet during this appointment, and when asked if he was talking yet, my husband replied, ‘Not really”, even though the child was non-stop chatting at home.

As a result, the next six months were spent fielding calls from the poor nurse who would occasionally touch base as to how the talk was coming on, and my repeated reassurances that the only person who needed a check-up was my husband, whose hearing was clearly in trouble.

And so it was that, come hell or high water, I was not offloading the responsibility to anyone else when it came to accompanying Number Two to his development check.

Thankfully, he got on fine — babbling when babbling was required, smiling broadly, and altogether projecting the image of a toddler who has his mother right where he wants her for the next three decades, ie wrapped around his impossibly tiny finger.

When we got to the bit where the dropping of testicles was discussed, I nodded sagely, while secretly not knowing where I would locate these were it not for my keen observation of the nurse in action.

Height-wise, he was right on the money — average.

I had thought perhaps he would have been considered even smaller, but of course, given his older brother is the tallest baby ever to hit the west coast, my context was clearly skewed.

And then we got to the weight — needless to say, we were slightly above, which is unsurprising given that his childminder once stated he’d eat himself if he could. I’d be lying if I said finding out he was on the cuddlier side of things didn’t make me squeeze him more, because what is the point of being a baby at all if you can’t embrace the baby rolls?

The circus tricks were coming in thick and fast from Number Two: We opened a bottle, passed a ball, squeezed a squeezie toy, stood straight and ran from A to B. We are surely going to be signed to Fossett’s any day now.

All in all, the report was good, very reassuring even, and as I loaded the baby into the buggy, I was filled with a feeling of inexplicable relief.

Our visit had been lovely as expected, and yet I still had an overriding sensation of being someone who had blagged her way through an NCT test by the skin of her teeth. I don’t know at what point as a parent you can relax into a certain confidence that you know what you’re doing, but I’m nowhere near that stage yet.

Walking home, the heat had me immediately rubbing the back of my neck as beads of perspiration appeared. Perhaps the real reason I had been sweating had nothing to do with nerves, but rather the fact we are in the midst of a heatwave — at least, a heatwave by West Kerry proportions, which of course means our cardigans are slightly more cropped than usual.

Arriving back at the house, I was delighted to see the birthday balloons I had ordered had arrived. The husband was all questions about how he got on, and I relayed all the good news. He then asked about the dropping of testicles, and again, I nodded sagely and gave some generic responses to give the illusion of knowledge. Whatever I said seemed to appease daddy, who lifted Number Two up in the air as if he were the Sam Maguire.

Watching Number Two in action, I still can’t believe he’s mine, and that he’s here at all. As much as he is utterly nonstop when it comes to spillages and has me chasing after him to remove dangerous objects from his clutches on an hourly basis, he is truly a dream baby.

My sentiment is interrupted by a sudden smell, alerting me to the fact that he has done a number two. I fob off the gift-wrapped dirty nappy on daddy as a ‘present’ to be opened upstairs. Daddy is momentarily excited, perhaps presuming it’s a romantic gift of some sort, until he realises what’s happening: dirty nappies disguised as presents, balloons and birthday trips to the public health nurse — nobody can ever say this family doesn’t know how to party.