Julie Jay: A few surprises near the potty - which makes Ted the same as any man I've ever dated

This week we are changing cars, potty-training, and reminding Fred that honesty is almost always not the best policy

Picture: iStock 

IN THE last few days I have changed car and decided to commence potty training with Ted, because my motto in life has always been why do one thing well when you can attempt multiple things very, very poorly.

The potty training has had its ups, downs, and surprise puddles, but overall Ted has really taken to the whole process. That said, we have had a few surprises in the general vicinity of the potty, which to be fair makes Ted the same as any man I have ever dated. The intention is good, but the aim always seems to be slightly off, leaving a conspicuous trail of wee which Ted gleefully informs me “I clean up, I clean up”. Ted’s willingness to clean up bathroom messes is what differentiates him from the previous Irish men in my life who have consistently failed to leave my loo as they found it (ie, with the seat down).

Saying goodbye to my Yaris fills me with nothing but relief, yet Ted gets a little sentimental waving her off. The new car is my dad’s old car, so we head up to Kildare to pick up the Toyota Avensis. Yes, I have promoted myself to my first ever saloon vehicle, and I’m not going to lie, despite initial nerves, Ted and I have adjusted to our newfound status as resident road-beast with surprising ease. Ted loves the legroom and I love driving a car with four doors – a dream come true.

Because Fred – aka Darling Husband – is heading to a comedy festival in the west, Ted and I hang out in Nana and GonGon’s for a couple of days before venturing home. Whenever we are at my parents, Ted affects an air of relief, giving off serious ‘thank God somebody finally knows what they’re doing’ vibes. Though I am the default parent most of the year, the second we cross the threshold of his grandparents, Ted acts like I am a TY student attempting veterinary surgery minus supervision, winging it all the way.

When gently prodded that he needs a nappy change, Ted announces: ‘I get Nana.’ I suggest playing farmhouse and he waves a tiny hand dismissing me: ‘No no, I get GonGon.’ During the night when he makes multiple requests for milk they are accompanied by: ‘I wake Nana, she get a bottle,’ all in all making it look like this child has been fending for himself for the last two and a half years. His love for Nana is cemented when he throws a jigsaw puzzle piece in her direction. 

Ted has come to throwing small items at me, which multiple friends tell me, is a warped sign that he really, really loves me, and feels safe to test the boundaries. Fair enough, but last week I got a glass Yankee candle in the bum, and I can tell you it felt less a declaration of love and more a declaration of war. In his defence, it was a small Yankee candle (white linen scent, in case you’re wondering), and when I turned around his giggles once again suggested this was all a game, but still I bent to his level and reminded him that ‘we don’t throw things’.

The results were tears, tears, tears, and Ted was crying too. As he scampered off, bereft, I toddled after him, nursing my bum injury along the way. I found him buried under a sea of teddies in bed. I sat down and told him again, very gently, how we can’t throw things at people, even if it’s a game. He removed Ducky from his face and through the sniffles muttered: “Say sorry, Mammy.”

Outrageous, of course, looking for me to apologise given that any court would find me the innocent victim in all this – bending over, minding my own business, picking up Lego when I got an unprovoked rocket in the behind. Still, because sometimes it’s easier just to capitulate, I found myself apologising for my bum getting in the way of his missile and Ted emerged from his teddy mountain, telling me ‘It’s OK, Mammy’, rubbing my hair and somehow we have all moved on, bar my bum, which is still stinging.

Accordingly, it is somewhat reassuring seeing Ted fling jigsaw puzzles at fellow family members as I was starting to worry he had some kind of personal beef of which I was unaware.

Fred arrives back from his comedy festival and we celebrate by going for a drive. As I settle into the passenger seat, Fred asks me about a job I was in the running for.

“I didn’t get it, Jennifer Lopez did,” I say (please note Jennifer Lopez is a pseudonym).

“Oh yeah, sure Jennifer Lopez is hilarious. Really, really funny,” comes Fred’s reply.

I turn down the radio, which means business. “Can you not remind me how hilarious Jennifer Lopez is, given she just beat me to a job,” I say.

“What’s your problem with Jennifer Lopez,” comes Fred’s reply.

“I have no problem with Jennifer Lopez. My problem is there are so many other things you could have said there.”

And so it goes on, as I am officially irked.

The conversation goes back and forth until I – in full-on histrionic and slightly hormonal mode – pose the somewhat rhetorical question: “Next thing you’ll be telling me everyone in comedy hates me.”

“I don’t know if they do,” Fred responds.

Needless to say, I have my earphones in for the rest of the journey, with Olivia Rodriguez blaring and the self-pity party in full swing.

For any man reading this column, please note the correct response to that question is ‘no’.

Yes men, sometimes it is better to capitulate, and almost always, when your wife is feeling particularly hormonal, honesty is almost always not the best policy. If you take no other nugget of wisdom away from this article please know that learning to tell a white lie or two will guarantee most husbands a happy life. That, and leaving the toilet seat down. You are welcome.