Edel Coffey: It’s hard not to get swept up in spring clean fever when you’re housebound 

Edel Coffey: After the Christmas tree came down, a cold eye was cast over the whole home that involved a full stock-take followed by a full clear-out. Picture: Ray Ryan

This Christmas, our family, our festivities, our new year celebrations, and the first few weeks of January were wiped out by various ailments and lurgies and illnesses that seemed to transfer from one to the next with the seamlessness of a baton in a world-champion relay race. I know I’m not alone in this. It seems like half the country had the same experience. The last time I went to the chemist (which, for the record, was yesterday), the pharmacist actually laughed to see me again.

The upshot of all this is I was housebound. And the upshot of being housebound is you get very familiar with every little job that needs to be done in your home and it’s hard not to get swept up in new year spring clean fever when you’re spending every living minute in your house. But spring cleaning when you live with children is different to spring cleaning when you live alone. Part of the cycle of sharing a home with children is keeping on top of their belongings.

They grow a little every year, outgrowing certain toys and clothes and growing into something new. If you don’t keep the whole production line moving, out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new, you’ll have a logjam in no time. But another part of sharing a home with children is the incontrovertible truth that they will not willingly part with any toy, old or new, broken or functioning. And so the spring clean has to be done with stealth.

After the Christmas tree came down, a cold eye was cast over the whole home that involved a full stock-take followed by a full clear-out. I started to empty drawers, boxes, and children’s wardrobes. Picture an Irish Marie Kondo with a hacking cough. OK, so I looked more like Peig than Marie Kondo but at least I was efficient. Sort of. OK, if I’m being completely honest I am still in the midst of my spring clean but a lot of progress has been made. Truthfully I’m just hoping I won’t walk off the job completely, like one of those builders on home improvement shows who downs tools and abandons the giant pyramid of rubble just out of shot.

With the children suitably distracted by their new toys from Santa, I started to clear out their toy room. The Play-Doh and the Duplo Lego, the superfluous untouched birthday gifts that could go to better homes, and then the many broken toys that the children swore they were still unnaturally attached to. (Spoiler: they didn’t even notice they were gone.) I spent two days sorting and separating and categorising so that I finally had a clean and organised toy room. I moved the various boxes and bags of the best bits to the hallway, ready to be brought to the charity shop as soon as possible.

Then a cold voice came out of nowhere.

‘What’s in those bags?’ It was my youngest. Where had she materialised from?

‘Nothing,’ I said, too defensively I realised immediately. Her antennae were instantly triggered. ‘It’s just mummy’s boring stuff,’ I said. This was the worst thing I could have said. She knows that is code for ‘stuff mummy doesn’t want you to see or interfere with.’ I knew she didn’t believe me so I held my ground in front of the boxes, like a security guard. Access denied. She shrugged and left. She knew I’d have to leave my post at some point during the day and then she would take her opportunity and pounce.

Later that evening, after making dinner, I came out into the hallway to see the contents of most of the boxes and bags out on the floor, a kind of inter-toy tea party in progress with all the various farm animals and dolls and Lego figures set up around a picnic. ‘Hi mummy,’ she said innocently. This was followed by a lot of ‘I found this toy! I love this toy so much! I haven’t seen this toy in ages.’ I played it cool. I knew she would eventually have to go back to school and then, under the cover of mid-morning I packed all of the toys away again and piled them into the boot of my car and took them to the charity shop.

The house felt lighter, full of new energy, and nobody complained about the missing baby toys or Lego they had once loved.

Last week, feeling very proud of myself for reasserting some order, I tucked my youngest into bed. It was one of those moments of feeling that everything was alright with the world. As I leaned over to kiss her good night my foot stubbed something underneath her bed. Something hard and unfamiliar, and yet it made a familiar clatter. It was the unmistakeable sound of Lego. Giant Duplo Lego to be exact, the kind I was pretty sure I had eradicated all traces of. I looked under the bed.

And there, secretly liberated from the charity pile, was a large selection of Duplo Lego. And so the spring clean continues.