Julie Jay: We need a Duolingo for baby-babble

“I’m thinking windies”, I say, but really I have no clue what our baby is after. I probably should at this point, but I am utterly at a loss. Eventually, we cop that the poor child wants to sleep by googling ‘What does a yawn mean?’.

This week, I watched an Instagram clip which featured an old Oprah episode where her eminent guest insisted she had cracked the baby code and relayed my findings to my husband.

“I think if it’s an 'oooh', he wants milk. And if it’s an 'aaah' it’s wind,” I inform Fred.

I resist the urge to follow up with an 'Ooh, aah, Paul McGrath' because there’s been enough controversy around Irish sporting anthems for one week.

The worst part of decoding baby cues is when you get it so very wrong. But on the plus side, when JJ’s little face gets red and annoyed I see an uncanny resemblance to his namesake, my father, who takes on a similar hue when Kerry are losing and when Trump appears on the telly. 

I recently expressed my guilt at not being able to comprehend JJ’s every want and need to a friend, who broke it down to such a simplified extent I was left feeling slightly foolish, and not just because Ted was painting my face with a permanent marker at the time.

“When you think about it, Julie, babies are like men,” she said sternly. “They only want one of four things: food, sleep, nappy change and burps.”

In defence of men, I feel they want a lot more than that, and the nappy generalisation is a bit of a stretch, but you couldn’t argue with the first two things on her list. 

Babies really just want to sleep, eat, and poop, so working out what they want should be easy, right? Wrong! 

Despite their supposed lack of wants, nothing is more terrifying than a crying baby who won’t settle, especially when you’ve tried everything to soothe them.

The last few days poor JJ was a bit under the weather, and as the week went on he became increasingly frustrated given that his needs weren’t being met.

Usually, if there’s a problem, the boob will fix it, but Saturday proved a different story. JJ was super constipated and backed up like rush hour on the M50. 

Despite communicating his dissatisfaction with the situation pretty clearly, it took me way too long to discern what was happening. 

By the time I copped that this was, in fact, the problem, Ireland versus South Africa had just kicked off in the rugby.

At this point, we had been winding for close to three hours, so I messaged a friend for tips while keeping one eye on the match. She’s a certified paediatrician — by this I mean she has four kids. 

She is fluent in baby talk and baby cues but ultimately there was nothing for it but just to keep on winding for Ireland and hope for the best.

Sunday evening we finally got a result as Mount Vesuvius erupted from JJ’s bottom on my freshly changed bedsheets. 

With all expelled, JJ let out a sigh of relief akin to one we all released when South Africa failed to convert a try. The happiness etched on his face only made me feel worse for not helping him sooner. 

The mood soon lifted in our house. Yesterday morning, to make Ted laugh, Fred held up JJ and talked in a baby voice, and though it’s not a comedy item that would work well in the Three Arena, it gets a great response in our house.

“Get out of my chair!” Fred makes JJ crow, and Ted giggles so much that he falls off the couch and onto the floor, where he lands with a distinctly audible: “Jesus Christ!”

Fred and I exchange looks, and I whisper to Fred through gritted teeth not to make eye contact and to act as nonchalantly as humanly possible. The same advice applies if you ever encounter a bear.

“Jesus!” Ted repeats, and I bite my lip, thinking of the last time I took the Lord’s name in vain, which was approximately seven minutes earlier when Fred suddenly appeared in the kitchen and proceeded to give me a heart attack.

“He gets that from you,” Fred whispers. Obviously, I deny all responsibility because that’s what you should do in any situation where one party is looking to impose some form of liability on the other.

“We say 'whoopsie daisy', Ted,” I correct him, hoping we can make it stick. 

A few hours later, I find Ted colouring our bedroom wall black with my very expensive mascara I thought I had successfully hidden. 

As my jaw hits the floor and a groan emanates from somewhere deep in my intestines, Ted looks up at me and utters a terrifying: ‘Whoopsie daisy.’

Touché, Ted, touché.

Sinister as it was, that, my dear people, is what we call progress, and as parents we take our small wins where we can get them.