Julie Jay: What’s worse than living with a prankster? Living with three of them

I have never been a fan of practical jokes, and yet somehow I am raising two small people who love nothing more than getting one over on their unsuspecting mother at every opportunity

'Maybe it was a robber' said one of my little ones Picture: iStock

I Have always had an aversion to pranksters. This aversion was only solidified when, as part of the press circuit surrounding the Oceans franchise, George Clooney and Brad Pitt would recall with glee the various pranks they played on their unsuspecting costars.

Highlights included Pitt spreading the myth in and around Lake Como that Clooney didn’t want anyone making eye contact with him, earning him the nickname ‘Il Diva’ among locals for his peak notions. In retaliation, Clooney’s revenge included attaching a bumper sticker to Pitt’s car, which included a less-than-flattering reference to the driver’s male anatomy. Hilarious carry-on, if you are a man of a certain age.

Interviewers would laugh — no doubt purely so they didn’t lose their job — as these Hollywood heartthrobs basked in their gassness.

I cannot think of a greater insult than being called a prankster. I have yet to meet one who wasn’t somebody I would avoid in the canteen at lunchtime. And yet somehow the gods have decided to deliver me not one, but three pranksters, if we are to include my children’s father, who does it professionally.

His pranks have included pretending he hasn’t picked up the children and that he has forgotten his passport as we stand in the departures lounge of Kerry airport. Which is also the arrivals lounge, if you turn slightly to the left. Again, gas behaviour.

But it’s the small two that really have me mithered when it comes to the prankage. Just this week, I have found one of my shoes hidden beneath a mountain of dinosaurs, despite protestations that they had no clue what had happened to my trainer, delivered in fake earnest tones before descending into giggles when I found the item at the bottom of their toy box.

Last night, with the lunches packed, the kitchen table laid out for breakfast, and the kids supposedly in bed, I treated myself to a trip to the toilet with the door locked. A huge mistake, because I emerged to find the entire hallway covered in talcum powder. Much like glitter or DNA, powder gets everywhere. In my case, it was my keys, my coat, my long-suffering shoes, which just can’t seem to catch a break.

“Do you know what happened in the hall?” I asked the nearly six-year-old, as he quickly disposed of an empty talcum powder bottle behind an armchair. “No”, he replied, affecting a look of horror as he accompanied me to survey the damage.

“Maybe it was a robber?” he suggested, his tone suggesting this was more of a question than a genuine speculation.

Ah, yes, because robbers are notoriously given to leaving a trail of powder to make sure their footprints are as clear as possible for the garda forensics department. Why make it hard for police departments when you can make it easy?

Though inwardly I wanted to explode much like the baby powder had exploded all over my just hoovered hallway, I swallowed my rage for later and marched the most likely culprit to bed, where I found my nail varnish had been commandeered by Number Two, who was fast asleep, tiny brush in hand. As I bent down to tuck him in, I fell over a piece of string which had been tied between a bed leg and a radiator.

“You found our booby trap,” Number One squealed in delight from his bunk bed as he watched Mammy peel herself off the floor and the nail varnish off her arm. (Number Two had decided the carpet needed a bit of a makeover — thank god, I only wear the clear stuff.)

I don’t mind the odd prank, but it’s getting ridiculous. Numerous times a week, Number One will declare Number Two as missing, pointing to the door ajar, and I will run up and down like a mad woman before eventually finding both boys hiding under Number Two’s bed in a fit of giggles. Because is there anything more hilarious than a peri-menopausal woman fighting back the tears and on the cusp of calling her local garda station to report her three-year-old missing? To which they would undoubtedly respond: Again?

Last Friday, childcare demands necessitated my calling on the troops to mind the two as I was off gallivanting around a TV studio. My auntie and mom were babysitting, and all went unbelievably smoothly, until it came to locating Number One’s pyjama bottoms. They looked high, they looked low, while Number One feigned confusion as to their location, until he eventually revealed he had been wearing them under this uniform all day, and had simply been enjoying their bewilderment too much to confess.

When complaining about the level of pranking going on in my house to a friend last night, she reminded me of the time sixth-year students had pranked me by organising my desk, unable to bear the chaos anymore. Given that other teachers got their cars egged, I was only delighted that this was as far as they went.

Maybe raising a couple of pranksters isn’t the worst thing in the world, especially not if it culminates in me having a tidier table.