Julie Jay: I’d have booked a Botox appointment had I known who I would meet at the school gate 

When it comes to trying new things, it is never easy no matter what age you are. Especially when you are surrounded by the ghosts of Christmas past and the last time you brushed your hair, Michael D Higgins was still president

'I wish I had had a bit of warning that this would be my most humbling experience of 2026 thus far. I could have booked in a curly blow-dry or a quick Botox appointment.' Picture: iStock 

Our first-ever Easter camp is under our belt, and all in all, it was a resounding success.

In terms of feedback, the main hit seemed to be the sweet shop. Each day, Number One headed off with a ridiculous amount of money, because much like a member of the royal family, I have absolutely no concept of how much things cost.

I also have no understanding of what constitutes expensive and what doesn’t, which is good news for me as I remain completely unfazed by what is surely an imminent fuel crisis. Between that and the Easter camp having a tuck shop a la Mallory Towers, I’m starting to feel very middle-class all of a sudden.

Certainly, there seemed to be a lot of games, games I had never even heard of, like ‘Flush The Toilet’ — one which seemed to particularly appeal to Number One, based on how much he requested we play it at home over the course of the week.

Hopefully, he can really commit to training and one day turn professional.

Another new game which proved a hit was called ‘Duck, Duck, Goose’. It was also new to both my husband and me; we had to rely on Number One to relay the rules, who proceeded to make the whole system so convoluted that I’m still not 100% sure how anyone wins or loses.

All I know is that it did involve me doing a lot of running after my husband.

“This is just like when we first got together,” he quipped, as I physically backed him into a corner, preventing any escape.

The hardest part of the whole experience was the confronting nature of the collection time. Rocking up to the school gate on day one, I was met with faces I haven’t seen in about two decades, maybe more.

Suddenly, I was surrounded by all the ghosts of Christmas past, because even though I am not technically from Dingle, I did spend a lot of time in the park as a teenager.

I wish I had had a bit of warning that this would be my most humbling experience of 2026 thus far. I could have booked in a curly blow-dry or a quick Botox appointment. Instead, I was unprepared for this emotional guerrilla attack, as I tried to clean the baby’s face with my sleeve and insisted my children were never usually this dirty.

This was, of course, a complete lie, but a necessary one given the person I was speaking to was wearing a Barbour jacket and looked so well-dressed she could easily have convinced me she had left her full-time job in accounting for a full-time MomTok influencer gig.

Buoyed by the success of the camp in Dingle, I tried to keep the momentum going and signed Number One up to an art camp near his nana’s house in Kildare.

Sadly, it was a fail, and a very decisive one at that.

Despite framing the experience in the most positive of verbiage, Number One flatly refused to go inside, with us only making it as far as the corridor before he took flight and returned to the car.

We won’t go into the details, but it’s safe to say he made it known in no uncertain terms that he would not be attending, and the money I had spent on the camp would be flushed down the toilet, much like his new favourite outdoor game.

As I drove away, a little defeated, I was proud of myself for not taking his art-camp refusal too personally or being too crestfallen about it all. Perhaps this is down to having experienced these boycotts before — I still have nightmares about the time we attempted rugby training — or the fact I am very, very tired, but equally, I am trying not to sweat the small stuff.

Of course, I know had I managed to convince him to give it a whirl, he would have loved it, and for that reason, I am disappointed for him, but I am also not disappointed in him, and that’s the difference.

Though we are only halfway there, I know already I will be walking away from this Easter break knowing we tried one new thing, and it worked, and that is enough of a parenting win for me, given they are often few and far between.

The fact he happily bounded in every day, thrilled with himself and excited for the day ahead, was really wonderful, even if his mother was getting PTSD from her West Kerry nightclub days with all the former acquaintances she was bumping into while picking him up.

It can be scary, even now at my age, to do new things and try something different — just ask anyone who has ever made the mistake of ordering a pizza without cheese.

It is a reminder that whenever our kids try anything at all, they are being so brave — just like their mammies, who demonstrate incredible courage in facing the school gates and being confronted by former acquaintances who haven’t seen them since they were dropping on the dancefloor to Britney beats all those years ago.

Aren’t we all brave, really? Especially the mammies, because we turn up with hair unbrushed, tops on back-to-front, and wearing socks that are most likely not our own.

If doing all of that isn’t heroic, I don’t know what is.