She clung to my neck, chest to chest, her sobs breaking first. Her tears ran down my neck and gave me the courage to let go. “I love you so much,” was all I could mutter. She paused to check if I was really crying, then buried back in. Her mother watched us with a smile before I heard the muffled words in my ear: “I’ll miss you, Kombucha House.”
She was five when I moved in. It was her idea to call it that. I never gave her a big, overwhelming talk about Mammy and Daddy’s relationship. I don’t believe in that kind of drama for kids. All I wanted her to know was: you are safe, you are loved, and Mammy and Daddy aren’t going anywhere.
Comedy is often my secret weapon in parenting – that, and the element of surprise. One day while walking down the street I told her I had a surprise. I opened the door of a “random” house and stepped in. “What are you doing, Dada?! We’ll get in trouble!” It took her a while to believe it was her second home.
Home wasn’t something I’d ever had to create before. I’d lived in 22 places since leaving home in my troubled teens. I was used to change and upheaval, making home out of chaos. When my daughter’s mother and I settled in Dublin after some years in London, I watched her build a nest for us. It was my first proper home since I was 14. Okay, the windows froze on the inside, but it was home.
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Today I will discuss House of Beamish. I think I remember the plot from history class, but we were all quite drunk
Leaving that home for what we came to call Kombucha House broke my heart, yet I knew I had to make it work. Of course, my daughter wasn’t going to stay overnight straight away. I had to earn that.
I started with projects. “I got some plants – you know what to do with them?” She was over with gardening tools in hand. Soil in our fingernails. She talked to the yucca plant – Rosa – for hours.
I made her favourite spaghetti bolognese, and while she was upstairs working out camogie tactics with her teddies, I set up the table like Lady and the Tramp. Candle lit. Food ready. “Please take a seat, Madam,” I said, pulling out her chair and lifting her into it. With a tomato-covered face, she declared, “this is the best date ever”. I knew we’d broken ground. She started staying over after that. Some other nights I’d come home at 2am after a show in Donegal or Galway – shattered, but the house was too empty to sleep in. When she was there, I slept like a baby.
[ ‘My eight-year-old gets into a panic when I leave the house’Opens in new window ]
There were always panic tidy-ups before her arrival. But I loved cooking our meals. She loved the shower. Movies in bed after homework became a ritual. She’d watch Arsenal with me – said the white ball on the green pitch helped her nod off. At 7am, like clockwork: the creak of her bed, the bump on the floor, the patter of feet on the landing. I’d lift the duvet. “Morning, Daddy!” She’d climb in and go back to sleep.
Of course we had fights. Tantrums over cartoons meant she’d hide under the creaky bed, the perfect enclosed space for her to vent her annoyance before I’d negotiate her out, hug out feelings and embrace the silence. Then, when we were ready, we’d bounce out any sadness by jumping on the bed, her screams of laughter ringing out on to the street, “keep going”.
I was proud. Proud she got through it. Proud we’d made a home. I didn’t love the building anyway
Kombucha House earned its name that spring. Another daddy-daughter project attempting to brew our own fizzy fermented delight. We got all the gear from the health shop and Ikea– barrels, bottles, funnels.
“The scoby looks like a jellyfish died Dad.” We did it all together. We weighed tea and water, labelled recipes on the wall, took tasting notes. She poked fruit through the funnel to flavour the bottles. Strawberry was our favourite.
Trying to de-gas the bottles without explosions was the real tension. Screams of laughter as the fizz would burst out all over the walls, worrying me about my deposit. Then came the biggest explosion – at her mother’s house. I got a video call with two different screams down the line – and a geyser of kombucha battering the ceiling in the background.
Now here we were, standing in the empty, echoing livingroom of Kombucha House. The moment I’d been dreading since the landlord gave me notice.
There were no tears now. Just arguing. She was insistent about the plunger. “Just leave it here, love. I don’t want it anyway.” “No, Dad – we bought it. We’re keeping it.” While I did a final check, she hurled the plunger around the kitchen.
She was okay. And I was proud. Proud she got through it. Proud we’d made a home. I didn’t love the building anyway.
[ Stand-up comedy: I never knew that five minutes could feel like a lifetimeOpens in new window ]
But I understand now – home is the moments we create, and the people we choose. Everything else is fluff.
It didn’t stop the frog in my throat. “You wanna say anything, love?” I asked. But she was already halfway out the door, laughing. “Goodbye, Kombucha House!” she called, while I took one look back into the kitchen. Only I can see it on the Forest grey paint of the kitchen wall. So small you wouldn’t know. A single red strawberry spot.
I let out the worry. Wiped a tear.
Onwards.
