How times have changed

The Dad Diary
Edwin McGreal

It was 7pm on St Patrick’s Day when I said I’d enjoy two bottles of beer. I only had one – more on that anon. The fact the thought of drinking only occurred to me at that time shows how different the national holiday has become for me.
Before kids came along, March 17 was a great day for the pub. It was always a great day to catch up with the crew, but there was often the added bonus of big sporting games on TV.
It was also a great day for the plan of ‘in early, home early’, even if the second part often went by the wayside.
Now, the thought of going to the pub on St Patrick’s Day would not even cross my mind. With three small kids, it is a different day altogether, but no less enjoyable.
Unlike of old, the day no longer begins with a sleep in. Séimí, in particular, sees to that. He is going through a phase of either waking at 4am and going back asleep until 7am or just getting up at 5.30am or 6am and no going back. On Friday last, it was the latter, and it was my turn to be up with him. (These days, Frankie and Éamon oblige with staying in bed until 7.45am. The dream is Séimí will soon get to that stage too.)
With nap time fast approaching for Séimí, I took Frankie and Éamon down to the western end of Achill Island to watch the marvellous tradition of the marching of the village bands. It gets underway at the ungodly hour of 6am with the Dooagh Pipe Band starting, so it was good to know I was far from the only early riser that day.
The bands meet at Pollagh Church and then walk to Keel and onto Dookinella with bands from Dooagh, Pollagh, Keel, Dookinella, Tonragee and, this year, a visiting band from Germany taking part too. It was the 75th anniversary of the Dookinella Pipe Band – that gives you an idea for how long the Achill parade’s been going. They’re not the oldest band either.
It’s a spectacular sight, and Frankie and Éamon were suitably impressed. There’s something very tribal about it, with locals from each village either walking or driving behind their own band and exiles scattered to the four corners of the globe coming home to participate or watch.
After dinner, I decided I would enjoy those two beers. I had one, but before I had even turned to the second, Séimí opened the fridge – the safety clip was, for once, undone – and grabbed a bottle of beer for himself.
I knew that if I panicked and shouted at him, he’d fling it. Aisling, recognising the precariousness of the situation, tried to go to him carefully. But he saw what was coming and threw it on the ground as hard as he could, smashing it to pieces. Maybe he was trying to tell me something.
Cheers, Séimí.

In his fortnightly column, Edwin McGreal charts the ups and downs of the biggest wake-up call of his life: parenthood.