Once upon a time (of course I had to start my Irish tale with that), there was an American girl who fell in love with an Irish boy. This boy lived in New York City, having fled his homeland as fast as his rugby-toughened legs would carry him. This made the girl sad, as she had always dreamed of living…well, in London, actually, but Dublin was up there on the list, too. So she tried to move to London for a year. The boy promptly proposed.
Fast forward fifteen years, two kids, and a house in Philadelphia later. My husband–to whom, in homage to Marian Keyes, I will hereafter refer as “Himself”–decided he was ready to give Ireland another try. I did a happy dance (which, I feel compelled to add, looked nothing like anything from Riverdance). We sold the house, chipped the geriatric pets for travel, packed ten behemoth boxes and a few suitcases, and got on a plane.
So now we live in Dublin.
My kids (“Himself Jr” and “Madam”) will go to school here. Himself will take photos. I’ll write. Maybe a book about Irish bog bodies. I’ve wanted to do that for a while. I thought, too, I would try a weekly blog about living in Ireland for anyone interested in hearing about it. I’m also going to post a photo a day on Twitter (@meljens–yeah, yeah, the writer is resorting to pictures and 140 characters or less) and running some contests.
Every Monday, I’ll post a new entry. Or at least I’ll try. I have very good intentions. The rest is debatable.
For today, I am a little tired. Okay, I’m as shattered as a mum can be after spending much of the last two weeks queueing for school supplies. A real first-world complaint, of which I am slightly ashamed. Anyway, don’t expect too much. I’ll try to do better another time.
Week One.
We’ve now stood in line in countless different shops with about a thousand different harried-looking parents and not-happy-about-it kids from about fifty different schools, buying books and pencils sharpeners and uniforms. It’s all very Diagon Alley. Some of the uniforms are great: hoodies, fleeces, cute skirts, funky socks, and round-collared blouses. Others look like every bad movie made about Ireland over the last fifty years. You know exactly what I mean. Thick polyester pinafores, mustard plaid, itchy jumpers, transparent wrinkle-free shirts. Which is pretty much what I wore when I went to Sacred Heart, only in fairness, it was red rather than mustard.
I’m off now to buy Madam a field hockey stick. For her age, they’re only about two feet long. I never thought I would say “awwww” about a hockey stick…