Julie Jay: Getting eyedrops into a toddler’s eyes is up there with trying to wrestle a crocodile

"I feel for Ted and the sore eyes because there is no question that he got it from his momma. Not to brag, but I have always suffered from gunky eyes, so much so that I was wearing an eye patch long before singer Gabrielle made it fashionable."

Julie Jay

COMEDIAN

It has been a week of crusty eyes, phlegmy coughs, and all-round infirmary vibes in our house this week.

Ted and I have been hit by an eye infection and a chest infection, respectively. Illness, rural landscape, plus the apocalyptic weather, mean I increasingly feel like I live in an Emily Bronte novel.

Fred, aka Darling Husband, is in Dublin, so Ted and I are fending for ourselves, armed only with honey, lemon, and the balsam tissues because, hashtag, we’re worth it.

On Thursday last, I rock up to my childminder to collect my little man who quickly shares his nickname for me: 'Mammy cough' — such is my level of whooping. The next day poor Ted's eyes are so sore-looking that we head to the doctor, who prescribes a weekend of chill for us both and eyedrops for Bruno Mars Junior, Uptown Gunk himself — Ted.

Getting eyedrops into a toddler’s eyes is up there with trying to wrestle a crocodile. Ted is about as amenable to eyedrops as he is to brushing his teeth, which is not very amenable at all. 

Finally, we get the eyedrops in after a lot of objections and I feel like Michael Jordan scoring a slam dunk or something basketball related (just because I know nothing about sports analogies, that will not stop me from making sports analogies). Ted is not impressed, which breaks my heart because I am the softie parent, completely incapable of applying tough love when it comes to this two-year-old mini-me. Long ago, I happily cast poor Fred in the bad cop role. Fred is about as intimidating as a teddy bear, so it's safe to say generally Ted rules the roost in our gaff — this is reflected in the many walls adorned with his doodles. Honestly, I think we are about a year away from him pulling a Michelangelo and bringing his art to the ceiling, though hopefully he works faster than poor Mikey: I mean, four years to paint the Sistine Chapel? Hadn’t he heard of Dulux?

Ted has started to insist I sit beside him for cartoon time and, on more than one occasion, has hidden my phone, Kindle and even my shoes in a bid to keep me seated. Though he is veering towards Patrick Bergin in Sleeping with the Enemy level of control, there is something lovely about just being with him, in the moment. As DH commented last week, there’s a wisdom in it, so I sit down with him, and Ted shares his blanket with me, and it is lovely, until I ruin the moment by attempting to get more eyedrops into him and once again, we have French aviation-levels of protestations.

I feel for Ted and the sore eyes because there is no question that he got it from his momma. Not to brag, but I have always suffered from gunky eyes, so much so that I was wearing an eye patch long before singer Gabrielle made it fashionable. One of my earlier memories is watching Glenroe as a reflection in a glass cabinet to prevent the glare of the '80s telly screen from hurting my tiny gunky eyes, because yes, my eyes really were as sensitive as my personality, which is to say, very sensitive.

I remember a hairdresser commenting that I was ‘just like a pirate’ — which is the last thing a nine-year-old wants to hear heading into the mean streets of third class and the perils of senior school and increased multiplication. Nowadays, I’m sure there are plenty of YouTube and TikTok videos detailing ways to glam up your eyepatch, but back in '90s Ireland, my only option was to adorn it with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sticker and hope for the best.

(As a massive fan of the most famous turtles in the world, I always quite fancied the aforementioned Michelangelo —  not the procrastinating artist but the bandana-clad, pizza-eating reptile. And if you think a girl can’t fancy a turtle, you would be wrong because my feelings for bad boy Michelangelo were real.)

Come Tuesday, Ted’s peepers are looking a lot better, so much so that we brave the supermarket, where the floor manager comments on how lovely Ted’s big blue eyes are. ‘Well, people say he has my eyes,’ I tell the nice man, and suddenly things get very uncomfortable, so much so that I grab a pineapple to change the subject.

‘I love pineapple,’ I say.

‘Oh, pineapple is great,’ the floor manager agrees, and so what I’m saying is Ted and I now own a pineapple, and we have no idea what to do with it. We both love fruit, but at the risk of sounding like Crocodile Dundee, I don’t have a knife big enough to get in there, so Ted and I have put goggly eyes on it and are already taking bets on how long it will sit in our fruit bowl gathering dust. We have hazarded that the pineapple will survive two British prime ministers, which let’s face it, is a Conservative estimate.