Julie Jay: The old múinteoir trick I use on Fred in emergency situations that works every time

Because the house-move has dragged on a bit, this was the week I rolled up my sleeves, channelled my latent múinteoir and told Fred we are getting the last bits done if it kills us

Fred is always nervous when I’m armed with Domestos and a mop

In the last couple of weeks, husband (Fred), toddler (Ted), and wifey/mammy (mise) made the big move from a mountainside in Brandon to Dingle city centre.

Ted and I currently spend most of our time staring at the tall buildings (some even have two stories) and waving at cars going by. Generally speaking, the transition from mountain boy to urbanite has been smooth for Ted, who refers to our new gaff as ‘Ted’s house’, but like many a man I lived with over the years, he still refuses to sign his name to the lease. (I once lived with four men from Monaghan, but their aversion to drawing the eye of local government meant that if my Sydney landlord ever asked, I was living alone in my sprawling three-bed apartment).

Though we have been living Chez Ted for a while now, we are still in the process of sorting through the last bits in our old house.

The house move has dragged on a bit, so this was the week I rolled up my sleeves, channelled my inner múinteoir and told Fred we are getting the last bits done if it kills us.

Fred is always nervous when I’m armed with Domestos and a mop, and feigns enthusiasm as I present him with a to-do list.

I am scrubbing the loo like my security deposit depended on it when Fred comes in to announce Tubridy is finishing up on the Late Late . I don’t point out the obvious, he has clearly been scrolling on the phone when he was supposed to be putting boxes in the attic, but mentally bank this for later when I fancy a row.

The next time Fred pops into the bathroom to say hello I am declogging the shower drain (in Fred’s defence, it is mostly my hair causing the congestion). Still looking untaxed and suspiciously sweatless, I spot that Fred is holding some form of clothing in his hands.

“Should I just throw these rags out?” he asks.

Upon closer inspection, I point out these rags are, in fact, my maternity knickers, and are most definitely not to be discarded.

Every room has a memory. We happen upon Ted’s umbilical cord and Fred looks at me like I am a disturbed individual until I explain this is something people keep (at least I hope this is, otherwise this is all very Silence of The Lambs). I reach for a half-full bottle of Ballygowan and am just about to pour it over my plants when I spot it’s Ted’s christening water. With due deference, I place it in the ‘Important Box’ containing passports, positive pregnancy tests, first scan pictures, and my Penneys fairy lights which I have been dragging around various rental accommodations since 2008.

I carefully pack Ted’s toys away, the ones he loved first, and can’t believe we will (hopefully) get to bring them out again for the new addition. Going through his baby clothes fills me with excitement for what’s to come — all the Christmas outfits we had bought in anticipation of Ted’s first Christmas with our extended family. These were the same outfits he wore at home in Brandon, where we stayed for the festivities thanks to covid throwing us a curveball and forcing us to stay put. It turned out to be the best Christmas yet.

Thankfully, we have been renting from family, because the number of doodles on the walls by Ted would give Banksy a run for his money.

Knee-deep in kitchen cupboards I find a bottle warmer, which I bought after watching a very odd TV series The Undoing. It basically consisted of Nicole Kidman walking around the streets of New York, looking forlorn in a green coat, with Hugh Grant playing Hugh Grant and just saying ‘I didn’t do it’ over and over again across the four episodes. Spotting a bottle warmer in one of the scenes, I woke up Fred, announced we had failed our newborn son, and went online to buy one immediately. It was used once and ever since has been relegated to the back of the kitchen press along with other kitchen items bought with similar optimism: a gravy boat (a measuring jug does the job just fine), an egg guillotine (too violent), and a nutmeg grater (last used the Christmas of 1992).

As I trawl through an entire laundry basket of tiny single socks, I notice Fred is - sitting down. The absolute audacity. When confronted he mumbles something about a funny TikTok. “Well, it’s your own time you’re wasting,” I tell him, because once a múinteoir, always a múinteoir.

The bit that really gets me, as I sift through our pandemic possessions, is just how many well wishes came our way when we had Ted. Even though we didn’t see some of these friends for upwards of a year or more, the postman delivered blankets, toys, and keepsakes from people we are lucky enough to know and love.

It is easy, sometimes, to forget how good people are, how kind and thoughtful and happy for you they can be. I am deep in sentimentality, stroking Ted’s first baby blanket, when I hear, ‘I found it!’ coming from the kitchen. Sure enough, Fred comes charging in, thrilled with himself as he clutches his misplaced melodica.

“Did you do the bins?” I ask, and Fred shakes his head.

“Not yet, but I’m getting there.”

“Fred you’re a lovely fella, you really are,” I say, momentarily removing my glasses. “But you’re just not giving me 100% here. I’m telling you what you need to be focussing on but you’re just not applying the feedback.”

“You’re right, I really need to knuckle down now,” Fred concurs.

“If these bins don’t get done I’ll have no choice but to — phone your mother,” I say, and with that, he is gone, bins in hand, determined to avoid this most certain fate.

It’s an old múinteoir trick I only wheel out in emergency situations, but it does the job every time.