Julie Jay: I feel a kinship with Garth Brooks, who also commuted from Kerry to Dublin

Julie Jay: 'When we get home, I swear to DH - that journey, never again (until next week)'

Julie Jay

COMEDIAN

Since the arrival of Ted, the journey from Dublin to Kerry has gone from being one I once secretly relished to a real test of endurance - and that’s just in relation to  Baby Shark. Gone are the days when I am the captain of my own Yaris - I am now very much answering the command of a stringent albeit utterly adorable toddler taskmaster.

I recently watched a TikTok video where an influencer talked about low vibes attracting low vibes and how all we need to wake up reverberating high vibes to avoid calamity. You'd feel bad for the men of Vinegar Hill who clearly woke up on that fateful morning in 1798 and failed to focus on the positives - how their pitchfork shone in the sun; how their short trousers showed off their amazing calves. 

Yes, it really is all about attitude, I decide the day after I finish up at Dublin Fringe. Before facing into the four-and-a-half-hour journey back home to Kerry, I nip into the city centre to do a few bits and treat myself to lunch in a new cafe I spotted during the week (hashtag notions).

Upon entering, the lady in the cafe tells me she spotted me with my son Ted in the supermarket during the week. She asks if I would like another baby. No, I think I'll just get the vegan toastie, I say.

Darling Husband texts me and as I sip my chai latte, I explain with fingers crossed that traffic is terrible and I'll be there as soon as possible. One hour later, I pick DH and Ted up at his parents' house in Kells, Co Meath, and we're off home to the Kingdom. We hit the M50 at peak traffic, but I'm still radiating high vibes, even when DH asks if it's OK if he falls asleep. Of course, I say, while secretly infuriated.

As we reach the Red Cow roundabout, both boys are snoring and I listen to the coverage of the Queen's funeral on the radio, but it's bringing my frequency down, so I turn to the next station where the presenter is discussing the cost of fuel. Now for something completely different, he says and introduces a segment on the housing crisis. Determined not to let my vibe falter, I switch to Sean Nós because nothing says 'positive mental attitude' more than a man singing about unrequited love and a failed harvest.

The light is on the dashboard again, and I decide to pull over and check it out. It turns out it's the oil, and neither I nor DH can open the lid of the sump. Despite my spouse's protestations about potential emasculation, I ask some hi-vis-wearing youngsters to help us out, and they succeed with aplomb. You give out about Gen Z confidence but it's quite handy when it comes to opening stuff.

Garth Brooks performing at Croke Park. He travelled between Kerry and Dublin earlier this month. Picture: Mark Stedman

Ted gets a banana and DH informs me this is his third today, which I'm pretty sure is illegal. We're on the road again and only three hours to go. Suddenly I feel a strange kinship with Garth Brooks, who also commuted from Kerry to Dublin - and they told us it couldn't be done.

DH wakes up just before Barack Obama Plaza and suggests stopping for food. The lovely lady in the petrol station gives Ted a mayonnaise sachet to play with and our journey is made. On the TV screens, the Royal Family files down a leafy Windsor, young kids are standing with parents who are overcome with emotion. I get it because as alien as the concept of a monarchy might be, we all cling to a constant, whether that be a mother, an aunt, a grandmother or a queen. Part of us wants things to stay still despite knowing that life thunders on and that things cannot possibly stay the same however much we might wish them to.

Back in the car, the boys fall asleep again, so I select a true-crime podcast on my phone. DH wakes up as we are coming towards the end and for one terrifying minute, thinks I am listening to the news. He nods off again and Ted requests popcorn which he proceeds to wear as a hat. Finally, we hit Adare, and the townlands become a rhythm, a song: Newcastle West, Abbeyfeale, Castleisland, Tralee. We stop in Blennerville for milk and eggs and Cheerios.  I am still unsure if Cheerios are good or bad but anything goes on the day of the Queen's funeral.

We pass through Camp and the sign for Castlegregory Tug of War. DH asks me if a seven-year-old can be a king and I say I don't know. Stradbally is bathed in a dusk that is all the more beautiful because it is a West Kerry dusk.

When we get home, I swear to DH - that journey, never again (until next week). We give Ted his bath and put him to bed, his own bed. To see him so happy to be reunited with his teddies and tucked up in his familiar cot makes the six-and-a-half journey worth every minute of exhaustion. Looking at him, I'm sure that he could certainly be a king given five more years. He is already my little monarch because he rules my life based purely on the serendipity of his birth.

When I return to the kitchen, DH informs me my car tax is out but I shush him because I am still operating on a high-vibe frequency, babes - it's a thing.