Julie Jay: Nana’s visit has relegated me to second place in my children’s eyes

Julie Jay: "Over the last few days, I have been demoted from favourite person to just a randomer who seems to be following everyone around with a mop and bucket, saying things like: ‘If anyone wants me to peel a banana, I’m just in the hallway here’."

Most weeks, I oscillate between simultaneously resenting being the go-to parent for yoghurt opening, banana peeling, and Velcro-strapping, and revelling in my status as the default parent. The truth is, I love being the children’s number-one contact point in a crisis (and by crisis, I mean, of course, when Daddy presents them a scrambled egg, of which Number One has an utter phobia).

Because, as much as it’s exhausting knowing the precise GPS of every Hot Wheels car that has ever crossed the threshold at any given time, it is also nice to know that should we ever introduce proportional representation at home, I would get a considerable amount of first-preference votes.

This week, though, the tables have been turned, and I have had a taste of how my husband feels being confined to the passenger seat, because I have been relegated to the subdivision since Nana has come to stay with us.

The second my mother landed into us last Easter Saturday, the children ran at her as if finally being reunited with their family after a long hostage situation. ‘Thank God,’ they seemed to exclaim. ‘Finally, somebody who knows what they’re doing.’

As I hovered around in the background, the three of them immediately got down to business, catching up on the goss, reading stories, and building Lego towers. My faint interjections of ‘Does anyone fancy a cracker?’ could scarcely be heard over the din of pure joy as Nana sat, trapped in an armchair with Number One on one knee and Number Two on the other.

As heartwarming as it has been seeing this merry trio do their thing, I can’t help but feel a little sidelined by it all.

Over the last few days, I have been demoted from favourite person to just a randomer who seems to be following everyone around with a mop and bucket, saying things like: ‘If anyone wants me to peel a banana, I’m just in the hallway here’.

As recently as yesterday, my pathetic attempts at getting involved with some colouring were met with a reminder that Nana is here to help and that my services will no longer be required for the foreseeable.

Seeing how quickly I have become superfluous to requirements has given me a new affinity for those coalminers in the north of England during the 1980s who watched as their industry became redundant under the Thatcher government. I am the fossil fuel to my mother’s renewable energy source, the sod of turf to her wind turbine, the briquette to her solar panel.

The baby, in particular, seems increasingly ambivalent to me as he raises his pudgy arms out for Nana to lift him onto her bed, which has become the centre of the universe for the two boys.

Every morning, without fail and armed with milk, they bundle in beside Nana first thing in the morning, banishing me to the kitchen.

No doubt these chats have consisted of a look at the Dow Jones and the impact of tariffs on Irish exports, and other conversations, which, as Number One reminds me, are none of my concern.

Given my lack of investment experience, he’s not wrong, but I can’t help but feel like I’m being designated to be a water carrier, when I feel like I should be getting a go on the pitch.

Out on walks, Number One and Number Two like to hold hands with Nana, sometimes concurrently, making us appear like a human shield going up and down Dingle Marina. I am fairly sure more than one passerby has presumed we are involved in some kind of peaceful protest, such is the immutable extent of our clasped-hand chain.

On more than one occasion, I have happened upon Number One having a quiet chat with Nana in hushed tones, each holding the other’s hand as if steadying themselves while cartoon Fireman Sam reaches its dramatic conclusion: Spoiler alert — he puts out the fire.

Invariably, this fire will have been started by a pyromaniac called Norman, who seems to sail through life free from criminal consequence and, in doing so, mars the collective reputation of us, his fellow redheads, even more than that other infamous ginger, Henry VIII, did when he kept killing his wives.

Just when I was debating whether or not I would ever be needed by my children again, this morning Number One came scampering into the kitchen, declaring a domestic emergency.

‘Nana can’t fix the telly,’ he announced, and I’d be lying if I didn’t feel a momentary triumph.

Because Nana can do a lot of things, but entering my Netflix password isn’t one of them.

After all, as families, we all bring our own things to the table: Some of us can open yoghurts, some of us can reach high shelves, and some of us, like Nana, always have a fresh tissue up her sleeve, ready to wipe a runny nose.

However, in the ever-changing hierarchies of families, the one who can work the remote holds the power, and for that reason,  I feel my status is fairly safe for the foreseeable. Phewzers.