Diary of a Homebird
‘Let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore’. If you don’t recognise those lyrics immediately, you a) don’t have children and b) have been living under a rock since 2013.
While in Dublin for four days recently, I became very familiar with the ‘Frozen’ song lyrics, lip syncing to them with my three-year-old godchild Saran, and listening to her and her cousin’s delight about attending ‘Frozen on Ice’.
Like two teens off to their debs, they arrived in their floor-length princess dresses the morning of the show. While they were off at ‘the ball’ in the Citywest hotel, I was to hold the fort and mind their baby sisters. It was all very Cinderella. I felt like I was missing a great day out, especially when I heard even some adults dress up.
On my sister and sister-in law’s return, however, I realised I was lucky to have stayed put. I was informed that my poor godchild had suffered some travel sickness while stuck in severe traffic outside the Citywest venue.
With traffic so bad, my sister resorted to exiting the car with my poor pukey niece and walked two kilometres to clean up.
Unfortunately, the woes didn’t stop there, and on the girls’ return from an ‘eventful’ morning poor Saran wasn’t fully over her travel sickness. While telling ‘Auntie Tee-ra’ about Anna and Elsa, she suddenly projectile vomited all over the kitchen floor.
My other niece Aoibh reassured her it would be ‘otay’, and I tried not to laugh when she added that the sick was ‘stinky’.
Feeling a bit ill, I regretted not taking up the chance to take my two other little nieces for a walk as the clean-up operation ensued.
I toyed with the idea, but knowing me it would be their second birthdays by the time I would manage to navigate us home again. You see, I’m useless with directions. You may remember that one time I had to Google map my way from Ballyglass to Ballinrobe, a 15-kilometre journey.
I’m not sure where I get my terrible sense of direction, but it’s an affliction and has seen me traipse many streets over the years.
My most recent odyssey occurred that same weekend in Dublin. While attempting to meet a friend for lunch and a catch up, I took in pretty much every street and laneway in the Dublin 2, 4 and 6 postcode areas.
I had picked a nice little lunch place close to her work, as I heard it had the most amazing array of salads and was very ‘of the moment’. According to good old Google Maps it was a 13 minute walk to ‘Eathos’ on Upper Baggot Street.
You’d swear I was trying to traverse a foreign land, asking passersby for directions, only to walk for ten minutes before arriving back at my starting point. Fitzwilliam Square, Leeson Street Upper, Leeson Street Lower, Sussex Street, I was on a whistle-stop tour of Dublin, except it was no fun and I was starving.
Finally getting there thanks to a taxi, I arrived 30 minutes late as my poor friend was finishing her lunch. The worst thing of all is I used to live in Dublin, on Raglan Road, about a five-minute walk from Upper Baggot Street.
They say pray to St Anthony when you lose stuff, but who do you pray to when you’re just generally lost?
> In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old still living with her parents.