Mammy Dearest: We wonder if Ted's genius will hold him back 

Comedian Julie Jay, Picture: Domnick Walsh

Julie Jay

COMEDIAN

I have found eating out as a recent family of three such a stressful experience I have avoided it at all costs. My darling husband (hitherto to be known as DH) is much braver than me and suggests eating out with Ted at least three times a week - like we are in France or something. I decide to do the unthinkable for DH's birthday and bring Ted for dinner.

The restaurant is lovely, but like watching  The Crystal Maze, I can't help but spot the potential hazards: Candles! Table cloths! Sharp corners! Glass! Real, non-plastic plates. This place is a death trap.

DH peruses the menu. "Are we getting starters," he asks, oblivious to the fact our two-year-old is wriggling out of his high chair. 

The waiter is lovely, a young man who can carry trays without dropping things, which I am very impressed by as formerly the world's worst waitress.

"Hi, Ted," the curly-haired waiter coos.

Ted furrows his brow at the man who has brought the baby chair. People have recently started commenting on how grown up he is, so he has quickly come to realise the transience of youth - specifically babyhood. Oh, to be ten months again - those were the glory days.

DH goes for the chicken wings and asks for the burger.

"That's fine," comes DH's response when the waiter informs us the burger will take 20 minutes to cook. 

I scour the menu for something I can eat with one hand and decide on a wrap. DH smiles the relaxed smile of a bachelor with nowhere to go and nowhere to be. The smile that greeted me on our first date in Galway, the smile that said 'Julie, please save me from a life free of commitment'.

DH informs me that the little bowl of lemonade they gave with the chicken wings is actually very refreshing. I am suddenly reminded of my dad eating the potpourri at a family communion in the mid-90s. In his defence, it was a buffet, so what is an off-duty garda to do? 

I manoeuvre the silverware out of Ted's reach like he is a recently escaped convict. As the waiter removes DH's plate, I attempt to disguise the part of the wooden table Ted has carved an 'X' into, like some terrifying cartel boss.

Our food arrives just as our toddler is about to pull the tablecloth Keith-Barry style. Chopping up Ted's goujons, I am Greg Wallace of Masterchef fame, all cockney "oooo that's luver-ly" and exaggerated facial expressions to persuade him to sample his food.

Ted reaches out, pulls the condiments towards him and carefully applies mayonnaise and ketchup to his chips and goujons in a distinctly symmetrical pattern.

"We might have a civil engineer on our hands," DH announces. 

I nod furiously.

 "Oh, there's definitely a design there, isn't there?" 

I concur, and we watch Ted eat mayonnaise straight from his spoon and wonder if his genius will hold him back.

Our brief unison in parental pride is broken when DH dares to start breathing in between bites, like a lord of leisure. While inhaling my chickpea wrap, my spouse is digesting his dinner at Rosie and Jim canal boat speed.

"I love you, darling," I prod. "But I don't think Ted will last much longer."

"Do you think," replies DH, genuinely curious, as Ted is now crawling into his buggy and repeating the words 'go' and 'finished'. 

"I can't be 100%," I say as Ted puts on his jacket. "Just reading between the lines here."

"Will we chance dessert," DH suggests, but I can't hear him because I am paying now, and the deal is done.

We manage to get out minus any tantrums, upset, or tears - and Ted does well too.

I put him into the car and say how proud I am of him. Ted wraps his arms around my neck and squeezes me. He has been, as ever, the best company.

"Oh, pet," I say. "I almost forgot, Ted has a present for you."

As he walks around to the side of the car, DH's face is beaming, his arms outstretched in anticipation.

I hand Ted over, and DH smells his surprise from two feet away.

"Is it a pooey," he declares, almost excitedly.

"Perhaps the biggest yet," I say proudly. 

Happy birthday DH. Here's to a year of chicken wings, pooey nappies, and breathing between bites.