Julie Jay: When the fun parent becomes the favourite parent
Comedian Julie Jay. Pic: Domnick Walsh.
There's a new favourite parent in town, and it’s the one who can reach biscuits on top shelves and can find middle C on a keyboard with his eyes closed. Yes, the reviews are in, and it turns out that in recent months, my husband has been delivering a stellar performance in the daddy stakes.
I can’t blame the boys for loving on Fred a little, he brings craic levels up by 2,000% and is somebody who is always finding the fun as I run around like a lunatic fretting about things like replacing carbon monoxide alarm batteries and making sure we have a key for the window in the event of a fire.
For the last few months now, my three-year-old has requested more and more time with Daddy, and where once I was the go-to adult, I have now been reduced to being called Julie as if I am some randomer Daddy picked up in an Argos of a Sunday afternoon. He refers to us as ‘Daddy and Julie’ when out and about, and I’m fairly sure strangers presume me to be Fred’s new girlfriend. Such is the way Ted talks to me, it's as if I have only recently been given a walk-on part and am still very much on probation.
The signs were all there that this time was coming — Ted had been requesting hugs from Daddy and even asked for Daddy to read him his bedtime story. As a former múinteoir, that one was a particularly bitter pill to swallow because I love nothing more than the sound of my own voice.
Our six-month-old has a special smile he reserves for my husband — such is his level of love for him.
“I really am his favourite, aren’t I?” Fred marvels, rubbing salt right into my open, gaping wound, but he’s right, the baby adores him, and our older fella is also making my status within the family feel increasingly precarious.
“Daddy and Julie, come on!” Ted hollers on our Sunday walk around the marina before requesting a piggyback from Daddy, who is simultaneously pushing the pram. Much like Michelle in Destiny’s Child, I am superfluous to requirements and insist on taking over the stroller duties purely to have something to do with my hands.
When Daddy pops into a shop for a mineral, Ted is bereft. “Where’s my Daddy?” he asks me in what is a decidedly accusatory tone.
“He’s just in the shop, Ted,” I say.
“What have you done with my Daddy?” Ted asks, and I try not to make eye contact with passers-by looking at me like they are memorising my description for a police profile later.
When I explain, once again, that Daddy will be back soon, Ted runs towards the nearest retail outlet as if he has just been left in the company of a certified Trump supporter.
In the wake of this shift towards my husband, there can be no doubt that karma is real, as I have always been a daddy’s girl, so much so that I called both of my sons after the man — Ted Johnny and Johnny James.
“You’re like George Foreman,” I told him a couple of months back when I was trying to hammer home just how much I had done to secure his lineage.
“The boxer?” my dad asked.
“No,” I responded, rolling my eyes. “The fella with the grills.”
George Foreman of the grills named his five sons George, and even one of his daughters is named Georgetta.
Foreman's website explains: "I named all my sons George Edward Foreman so they would always have something in common.” Of course, one could argue the surname would be enough of a common ground there, but who am I to question the logic of a man who convinced the Irish nation to shift to a healthier method of cooking sausages?
They say relationships with parents are the most formative factor in how we navigate relationships with others. As such, they are vitally important, though I can’t say I have gone for men who remind me of my dad over the years.
I mean, most of them have golfed and attended Garda College. And have been described as a 'character' at family functions. And, yes, most of them haven’t been able to tell the difference between a drill and a hammer, and I have the holes in my wall to prove it. And, yes, most are allergic to penicillin, support Aston Villa, and own a pair of outdoor slippers, but that is where all the similarities begin and end.
Aside from the initial sting, I have decided to revel in the freedom rather than balk at being the second-best parent these days. On Sunday, Ted requested Daddy for storytime, and I happily waved him off, sitting down to give JJ his bottle and watch some action.
Listening to the giggles coming from upstairs as my husband put our three-year-old to bed, I reminded myself that complaining about your kids preferring your partner to you is like complaining about having too much money. But if you do feel your children prefer your partner, remember that things could be worse: you and your four brothers could be called George. Now, that would be the real stinger.
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