Julie Jay: Ted always wins because that’s the privilege that comes with being cute

Julie Jay.  Picture: Domnick Walsh

Julie Jay

COMEDIAN

Being a mammy to a two-year-old is to be constantly reminded of who you were at their age. In stark contrast to my son Ted, growing up I was the eternal indoors kid: why suffer the slings and arrows of the elements when you could happily curl up with a book, in the comfort of your home, complete with a working toilet and snacks on cue? 

Summer was my most dreaded season — neon cycling shorts would be dusted off and I would suddenly be expected to transform into Famous Five levels of outdoorsy.

As a redhead whose foundation shade has always been rigor mortis, I was never a fan of the sun, and because of this I carved out my own interior world. Much like Nicole Kidman’s ethereal children in The Others, I spent my time hiding behind blackout curtains, donning Communion dresses and affecting an upper-class English accent to repeatedly remind my mother: “Are you mad? I am your daughter”.

The funny thing about kids is they are of you, but they are not you. 

From the second he could crawl, Ted has hated being cooped up. Attending his amazing childminder in West Kerry he quickly earned the nickname “Ted’s amach!” because Ted is always outside, being of the world. Unlike me, he is not scared, anxious, or fearful of falling. He is robust, intrepid, and brave.

Living where we live is surely the outdoor equivalent of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Brandon is a place full of wonder. My former indoor child would be horrified to know how much time I spend outside now. Watching morning cartoons has been replaced by a wish to run out onto the dewy grass. 

“It’s a little early,” I muster, bleary-eyed and cursing myself for having stayed up past nine the night before like I’m some kind of raver. “What about the telly?” I suggest, and Ted looks at me as if I have just suggested heading to the nightclub together, like Meg Matthews and her baby Anais back in the ’90s.

Invariably Ted wins because that’s the privilege that comes with being cute. 

In the garden, he lobs the ball at me and I have flashbacks to being out on the pitch in my secondary school PE class: “Can we all just take it handy with the kicks?” I would plead, shielding my face from the balls flying at me at speed. “That one nearly hit me!”

“It’s supposed to hit you,” would come the enraged response from my bowl-cutted male peers. “You’re the goalie!”

They would throw their hands up in the air with John McEnroe levels of histrionics and I would feign a hamstring injury to sit on the safety of the sidelines. I’m still not 100% sure what a hamstring is, but I always clutched my arm to make it appear convincing.

I often wonder was I really bad at sports, or was I just a teenage girl who had always told herself she was not good at sports. So poor was my reputation when it came to anything ball-related that my PE teacher developed a new scoring system whereby a boy who scored a goal got one point, a girl who scored a goal got five points, and if Julie scored a goal, she got 10 points. Needless to say much like the Kildare hurling team we never got to double-digits.

Through Ted, I have developed a newfound grá for sport and the outdoors in general. We collect flowers in our bucket and Nana teaches us names. They are incantations. Nóinín. Féar. Lupin. Fuschia. I try to think back to nature poems but any that come to mind seem strangely sinister. 

Spotting the fly on a leaf the playfully macabre words of Emily Dickinson come flooding back: “I heard a fly buzz — when I died.” Blackberries bring to mind Heaney’s haunting line: “Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.”

As I consider my mortality Ted has discovered that puddles are actually just small seas when you think about it, and we splash and I make the ambiguous sound that emanates from an accompanying adult who wants to laugh along but is also fretting about how they’re going to restore this child’s slippers to their former glory. Note to self: slippers are acceptable outerwear for Aisling Bea on late-night talk shows only.

The wind slaps us in the face in a way that makes me feel like a ’90s pop star. Ted’s cheeks are red and he’s looking a bit blustery which is a shame because I am sure I am looking positively pristine. The puddle escapade goes on for another 20 minutes until I decide to be assertive and give the ball a kick up the bóithrín in the direction of home.

One plus in having a formerly make-and-do-indoor-child mother is that we are crafty. We fashion jumpers as goals and mark our makeshift pitch — which I am fairly confident should be a rectangle, because I watched Italia ’90 so I know stuff. We have no sideline because this time everyone gets to play.

I take the ball in my hands and I kick it like nobody is watching because it is only Ted and I. The ball takes flight and to my utter amazement, it soars through the air, at a great height. Ted squeals in delight and points his tiny finger in the direction of where the ball has landed.

“Happy,” he giggles and claps his tiny, muddy hands.

“Happy,” I say, because this is the very definition of happiness, surely: surprising yourself in how high you can go, if you just give yourself permission to try.

Bolstered by this micro triumph, I retrieve the ball and attempt to pass it to Ted, landing it straight into the ditch. Ted lets out a scream, realising at that moment just how bad his mother actually is at football. Playing the part of a coordinated human has me suddenly pooped. Clutching my elbow, I coerce Ted indoors, because as any Premier League player will tell you, you only get one hamstring.