Bernard O’Shea: Five things I’ve learned to whisper around the kids

And then, without thinking, I whisper, “Is there chocolate in the house?” Not shout. Not say. Whisper. It is as if I’m in a spy film, and a Toblerone is a state secret.

And still, they appear. Wide-eyed and sticky-fingered. Like sugar-detecting meerkats. Where were these kids when I needed help bringing in the shopping? Or finding their shoes?

But whisper “chocolate” within a 500-metre radius, and they’ll appear beside you like Cocoa Voldemort.

There’s nothing you can do to stop them. Science backs the kids. Young children are uniquely attuned to emotionally charged whispers.

It’s called “salient speech detection,” but basically, it means they ignore everything you shout and laser-focus on the one thing you hope they missed — like chocolate. or muttering, “I think he’s full of shite” during the Six One News.

What’s the solution? Code words. We now refer to it as “the triangle”. As in: “Is the triangle in the house?” which sounds like something from The Da Vinci Code but keeps the peace.

There’s a moment in every Irish parent’s life when their child, dressed as a lamb or a shepherd or some other nativity livestock, bellows “shite!” during a school show.

You try to pretend your child said “shine,” a creeping realisation sets in: That came from me.

I try not to curse. I really do. But there are moments — a missed bin day, a rogue Lego piece underfoot, a missed phone call— that demand a specific vocal release.

The kind of release that rhymes with “kite” and slips out like a sneeze. I’ve even developed a whisper-cough combo: “Sh— cough —it.” A work of art. But it’s not good enough.

In the Ireland of my youth, adults swore like fishermen. My dad could insert a curse word mid-word: “un-ucking-believable.” And yet, you’d never repeat it.

Repeating an adult’s swear was like licking the toaster. Dangerous and guaranteed to end in pain. But now? Now, kids are fluent in adult stress.

Cognitive psychology attributes the issue to the limbic system. It lights up when it hears emotionally loaded language, even if it doesn’t understand it. So your kid will forget their Gaeilge homework, but remember “shite” with perfect diction and timing.

3. “How much?!”

There I was in a shop where a man trying to fill a day with three kids should not have been, lifting a €35 candle.

My daughter, watching with all the subtlety of a Revenue officer, bellowed: “HOW MUCH?!” Shoppers turned.

This phrase is the soundtrack to modern parenthood. I’ve turned into a walking receipt.

My inner voice is voiced by a worried accountant. “How much?!” isn’t a question anymore. It’s an emotional reflex.

A well-worn concept known to most economists is that the more abstract and repeated a charge, the less likely you are to challenge it.

We’re trained to pay in drips. But your kid doesn’t know that. They only know you freaked out over a €4.50 smoothie.

4. “Let’s get a takeaway”

I didn’t realise how powerful those five words were until I whispered them on a Friday at 5.17pm.

My child, allegedly watching TV and eating edible glue, launched into action. “Milkshake! Milkshake!” he shouted, marching circles around the kitchen island like a lactose-fuelled revolutionary.

Takeaways, for an Irish parent, are emotional first-aid. We’ve spent the week making meals nobody ate.

We’ve pureed, roasted, begged, and hidden vegetables in sauces like CIA operatives.

Come Friday, we want someone else to cook it, hand it to us in a warm paper bag, and ask no questions.

In the past, the takeaway night was sacred. You rang the chipper. You prayed the line was free. There was a brief moment of adult joy before someone dropped curry sauce into the VCR.

But now, whispering “takeaway” is like lighting the Bat Signal for kids. They sense weakness. They demand sides.

A study on reward systems in children (yes, someone funded that) found that kids react faster to food-based incentives than any other stimulus.

My children would ignore a fire alarm but sprint for the door at the sound of “happy meal”.

5. “I’m popping out for a bit.”

Every parent has a secret food shame. Mine involves a solo trip to the drive-thru under the guise of “running errands”.

I sit in the car, balancing a burger on my lap, dipping chips into ketchup with the thrill of a man who’s escaped dinner duty. I listen to the radio. I chew in silence. It’s glorious.

Until I get caught. Last week, I got home, and my son said, “You smell like chips.” Then he pulled a salt sachet from the pocket of my jacket like a CSI investigator.

Nutritionists say secret eating can create shame. I say it produces peace. Just make sure to destroy the evidence. Burn the wrapper. Febreze your coat. Or better still — bring them next time and say, “This is a one off”

Because chips, like childhood, are best when shared — unless they’re Yours. Then no. Get your own.

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