Julie Jay: Two dates in one week? I have never been so in demand

Pic: iStock

Julie Jay

COMEDIAN

Two grown-up things happened this week: I brought Ted to his first playdate and went with his father for a belated Valentine’s dinner. Two dates in one week — I haven’t been this in demand since my Tinder days. (Which reminds me, I’m not fully sure either Fred or myself ever actually deleted the app. If you do match with either of us, please know— we will get back to you in due course.)

Because he was a covid baby, I still get nervous visiting other people’s homes with Ted in tow. The last time I brought Ted to a friend’s house for a playdate, I dropped a bottle of lemonade at the doorstep, resulting in more broken glass than at a traditional Jewish wedding. It was certainly an entrance, and despite my friend’s protests to relax, I spent the visit apologising profusely and hunting for micro shards.

But I am determined to get better at the house calls, and because the only way you get better at anything is by doing it more, I arrange to call to see a friend who has a daughter about a year older than Ted. We arrive and our tiny hostess is in full-princess get-up, complete with a fairy wand. She shows Ted to the playroom and we produce Ted’s current toy obsession: his trains, accessorised with wooden trees, rails, a bridge, and a cosy station for waiting passengers because we are a civilised rail network.

My friend’s daughter immediately starts imagining stories for the people waiting for the train, much to Ted’s bemusement. He has affected a new stance: to cross his arms and furrow his brow when something is afoot, and he is currently in full-blown dubious mode.

In Ted’s world, the whole point of train people is that they merely bear witness to the many, many tragedies that befall his crisis-riddled rail network. These train people are less the subject of storylines and more bystanders to daily destruction.

Today, for our playdate, we have brought two train people who Ted has named Mammy and Daddy (honestly, the child is way ahead of his time). Mammy is a dark-skinned lady and Daddy is a sturdy-looking Germanic blonde, so the resemblances are quite simply uncanny.

Mammy and Daddy get into many unfortunate train accidents but luckily always emerge unscathed, thanks to Ted’s fleet of emergency vehicles. The bit I most enjoy is that Mammy is rarely responsible for these collisions. Invariably, Daddy is in the driver’s seat, which I believe reflects the parental driving Ted has observed so far.

My friend, being the child expert that she is, somehow manages to devise a system where we can combine ponies (her little girl’s favourite) and Ted’s trains into one mash-up of dreams. Ted seems content to play along and my friend’s daughter allows him a crash or two involving one of the ponies and a train car. This is the official definition of a compromise and the kind of diplomacy we need at international conventions.

My friend and I retire to the kitchen to have a natter and dissect Matthew Perry’s autobiography (our take: Matthew, please stop blaming your mother for all your life failings because she had the audacity to get a job). I am just reaching for my third — and by third, I mean fourth — chocolate Hob-Nob when I feel a familiar tug on my cardigan.

Ted tells me, ‘I did pooey, which is our code for when he is ready to hit the road. We return to the sitting room and Ted thanks his new friend for sharing her ponies.

We get home just in time for me to shower and get spruced up for my last Tinder match: Fred.

We head to a restaurant where I worked briefly during my stint as West Kerry’s worst waitress.

My serving nadir came when I accidentally set fire to a table, but because their food is so good or my self-awareness is so minimal (probably a combination of both), my love for the place hasn’t dwindled over the years.

We split the starters and get a main each (seafood risotto for me, steak for Fred), and we roll on out of there at the ungodly hour of 6.30pm, fit for the bed because we are officially geriatric parents.

On the way home, I ask Fred if my breath smells of seafood risotto? He reassures me that it doesn’t, meaning he has taken my recent feedback on board and started lying to me more, which can only be a good thing.

When we land at the house, Ted proudly announces he has just used his potty, and Fred asks: “Do you fancy a second date sometime?”

It may be a joke he makes on a weekly basis but it still has me giggling.

Yes, it turns out swiping right was probably the best thing I ever did. But darling, remember it’s your turn to clean the potty.