Bernard O'Shea: Five things the President of Ireland can do that parents have to do all the time

The Irish President has surprising constitutional powers — but most of them look suspiciously like everyday parenting duties

Bernard O'Shea: "The parent can convene a special 8.30pm emergency family meeting in the kitchen, usually triggered by (a) a missing remote, (b) an empty biscuit tin, or (c) someone not flushing. These gatherings are high drama: chairs are dragged in, tears shed, and a motion is passed to 'find out who left the back door open again'."

1. Refer a bill to the Supreme Court to test its constitutionality

When a bill has passed both Houses of the Oireachtas, the president has the discretion (after consulting the Council of State) to refer that bill (or parts of it) to the Supreme Court to ask whether it is compatible with the Constitution. 

If the Court holds it is constitutional, the president must sign it; if not, it cannot become law.

Parent version:

A child proposes ‘digging a massive hole in the back garden’ on a play date. 

The parent refers to the council of parents (“do you think I’m mad?”), decides it’s unconstitutional for the washing machine, and rules against it. 

Parents, like presidents, know the importance of precedent: if you allow ice cream once in lieu of a meal, it will be referenced in future Supreme Court cases, such as the people vs the freezer. 

The family’s constitution states that sugar may only appear as a dessert, snack, or emergency bribe for good behaviour. 

Parents often add footnotes: “Ice cream for breakfast is only permissible if you’re on holiday, or if daddy had a row with the bank and needs comfort.” 

Like the president, they consult their council — not of State but of WhatsApp — and the consensus is: “No, but maybe if the air fryer is broke and you forgot to do the shopping.”

2. Refuse to dissolve the Dáil (in extreme circumstances)

Under Article 27 of the Constitution, if a taoiseach asks the president to dissolve the Dáil (lower house) but has lost the support of a majority, the president may refuse to dissolve, forcing the formation of another government instead.

Parent version:

A child storms off, saying they’re “leaving this house forever”. 

Parent replies: “No, you’re not — your new government will be formed in your bedroom with a Lego cabinet and a teddy bear taoiseach.” 

The dramatic exit of a seven-year-old, complete with a backpack stuffed with Pokémon cards and two slices of bread, is the domestic equivalent of a taoiseach demanding a general election. 

Parents’ refusal to dissolve is an act of political genius: by keeping the child under house arrest, they prevent the chaos of having to explain to neighbours why their offspring is camping in a hedge.

Parents know full well that, given 10 minutes, the revolutionary government will collapse when it realises it has no wifi and no snacks.

3. Convene (or summon) special sittings of either or both Houses of the Oireachtas

The president has the power, after consultation with the Council of State, to convene a meeting of either or both Houses of the Oireachtas).

Parent version:

The parent can convene a special 8.30pm emergency family meeting in the kitchen, usually triggered by (a) a missing remote, (b) an empty biscuit tin, or (c) someone not flushing.

These gatherings are high drama: chairs are dragged in, tears shed, and a motion is passed to “find out who left the back door open again”. 

Parents wield the gavel of authority — often a threat of no TV — and open the floor to speeches. 

Middle child is usually silenced on the grounds of being “too loud” while the youngest is allowed to speak as they’re cute and people clap. 

Ultimately, the emergency meeting ends with a new law: “Nobody is allowed to bring the remote out of the sitting room again” — legislation that will be ignored within 24 hours.

Bernard O'Shea: The parent can issue an address to the nation (shouted up the stairs): “This is the last time I’m saying it — put on your pyjamas NOW".

4. Issue messages or addresses directly to the Oireachtas

The president can, after consultation with the Council of State and with the government’s approval, address or send a message to one or both houses on any matter of national or public importance (Article 13.7).

Parent version:

The parent can issue an address to the nation (shouted up the stairs): “This is the last time I’m saying it — put on your pyjamas NOW.” [Article 13.7 is otherwise known as ‘the bedtime law’.]

These addresses are usually ignored until the parent physically storms the Oireachtas chamber (the landing), flicks off the wifi.

Unlike the president’s dignified addresses to the nation, parents’ speeches are often punctuated by threats: “If I come up there one more time, someone will be living in the shed.”

Parents are also masters of strategic vagueness: ‘We’ll see’ is their version of a constitutional grey area. Children, like opposition parties, interpret this as a ‘yes’, but history shows it’s always a ‘no’.

5. Make certain key appointments (beyond ministers and judges)

Beyond appointing judges, government ministers, the taoiseach, and other officials, the president also formally issues warrants of appointment to various high public offices (eg, the Attorney General, Ombudsman, and Comptroller and Auditor General) upon nomination or resolution by the legislature or government.

Parent version:

Parents also make key appointments:

• Eldest child — minister for emptying the dishwasher;
• Middle child — junior minister for “who started it”;
• Youngest — special crying-in-Tesco envoy.

All posts come with zero pay, a volatile electorate, and a lifetime ban on resignation. Parents make appointments with the same solemnity as the president signing warrants — except their ‘appointments’ are shouted across the house while buttering toast.

The president may defend the Republic of Ireland, but parents defend the sitting room — and neither role, as we have seen, is for the faint-hearted.

Regardless of the paycheck and position, I say ‘good luck; to all presidential candidates. It might be your dream job, but traffic around the Phoenix Park can be awful.