Our Blogworthy Day

Amidst the glory of the sparkling green Irish hills and lively bustling city centre streets, a few occasional hiccups in our plans and tough days abroad have surfaced for The Rambling Richters.  I was advised by friends and loved ones to allow myself to experience everything about these six months away - good, great, bad and ugly.  I continue to try my best to just BE in Ireland and take each day as it comes.  Today, I “took” a lot of things…

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The DART train bound for Howth leaves Raheny Station every 30 minutes. 

One stop before Howth (the end of the line) is Sutton.  My son TJ’s doctor is a ten minute walk from Sutton Station.  We had his eczema follow-up appointment at 10:45 a.m. today. After a busy morning, I found myself with three whole minutes to get from the front door of our cottage to platform 2 at RahenyStation in order to catch the 10:20 train and be on time for our appointment.

So…we flew across the road at the stoplight with TJ giggling as his stroller (Irish call it a buggy) went up on two wheels.  Without skipping a beat, I whipped out my mesh coin purse at the train station with my DART card facing outward (I’m kind of a pro at that maneuver now) and waved it in front of the electronic sensor and the gates opened for us with just enough time for us to whizz up the footbridge and over the tracks to platform 2.  We had about 30 seconds to spare (I still can’t believe it) until we were safely on the 10:20 DART to Howth.

Phew.

I took a few deep breaths and then reached for my backpack / diaper bag to grab TJ’s bottle of milk.  (I timed it perfectly so I could feed him on the train.)  Ummm…no bag on my back.  No bag in the basket under his stroller.  No bag.  Anywhere. 

Well. The door to our cottage locks immediately upon closing.  I realized that in my haste to catch the train, I quickly grabbed my coin purse with my DART card (duh), grabbed my son (double duh), and out the door we bobbled.  I’ve been anxious about TJ’s red, bumpy skin lately because it has been getting worse and not better since his last appointment, and I really didn’t want to pay 15 euro to take a taxi.  I took a taxi for his initial appointment  because I didn’t know the exact location and I didn’t want to be late.  The 85-ish-year-old cab driver got lost, and I couldn’t tell him how to get there in a car because all I do in Dublin in take trains and walk places, so, ironically, we ended up being late.

Anywho… my phone, keys, TJ’s milk, diapers, wipes, baby food, etc., were all in the bag.  At home in our cottage.  Ugh.  This time, instead of freaking out about being without my phone and/or other possessions (see this post for a refresher), I just kissed my son on the forehead, gave him a smile, and decided to take one challenge at a time for the rest of the day.  I had a feeling there would be many to come…

(Here's me feeding TJ on the train.  NOT today.)

We exited at Sutton Station, walked briskly to SuttonSurgery (in Ireland, general practice doctors’ offices are called “surgeries”), and checked in on time.  10:45 a.m. 

Phew.

Annnnnnd then we waited in the waiting room until 11:45 a.m.  I tried to forget the fact that I had no diapers (nappies) for my son, and that he was over an hour passed due for his bottle.  He started to melt down (Irish say “give out”) a bit after 30 minutes, but I worked my Mommy magic and did my best to distract him every two minutes or so with something new so he wouldn’t scream.  I took his socks off and put them on my head.  I took my coat (Irish call it a jumper) and put it on his head.  I gave him pregnancy brochures, how to quit smoking brochures, breast cancer fundraising pamphlets, tissues, Gaelic magazines, etc.  We played peek-a-boo in the hallway, bathroom and reception area.  And we finally saw the doc and made a revised eczema plan.

With our new prescription in hand, we high-tailed it back to Sutton Station so we could catch the train back to Raheny.  I certainly didn’t want to miss this one, considering I had a hungry, and most likely wet, baby on my hands.  I knew I needed to call Mark at some point so he could (gulp) leave work at the airport, a thirty minute drive, to come home and let us in.  But my next priority was to get my kid some sustenance.  Right.  Ok.  

Next stop: our neighborhood SuperValu.

I had exactly 17 euro in my change purse and most places in our town won’t take my American credit card so I know I needed to use cash.  Groceries, and most everything else in Ireland, are very expensive, so I had to choose wisely.  I grabbed a cheap pack of diapers, a pack of baby wipes, a bottle of premixed formula, a cheap plastic baby bottle, and a squeezy tube of mangoes.  Sixteen euro and 47 cents. 

PHEW. 

Now, where to feed and change him, so we don’t look like we’re homeless…travelers…wanderers?  Where can I save face and not look like a terrible mom?  I decided we would just walk back to our cottage and sit in front of the door.  Even if we can’t get in, it’s the one place in Raheny where we actually belong.  Even if it’s temporary, it’s our home and it’s a place where we don’t feel so out of place.  TJ sucked down the mangoes and refused to drink the milk because it was in a different bottle.  Whateeeeeeever, kid.  At least I offered.  Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to change his diaper in the parking lot, so I decided to head to the pub on the corner and do it in their bathroom.

Next stop: The Station House Pub.

I fumbled through the hefty wooden double doors of the pub, banging the stroller about, and smiled at all of the regulars snuggled up to the bar.  I changed my son in the bathroom as he screamed ferociously, and then made my way back to the bar.  I asked to use the bartender’s phone, and he obliged, and said something that resembled English in a super heavy Irish accent, and I smiled and nodded, and reluctantly called my husband. 

No answer.  Greeeeeat.  I left a voicemail, and told him that I was going to head to the library so I could use their free computer and internet and send him an email, just in case he didn’t listen to his voicemail because it came from an unknown phone number.  

Next stop:  The Raheny Public Library.

TJ was DONE at this point because it was way beyond his nap time.  He screamed and whined a whole heck of a bunch in the library (that was not awesome) as I emailed Mark quickly, something along the lines of, “LOCKED OUT!  SO SORRY.  TJ IS SCREAMING.  HEADING BACK TO STATION HOUSE PUB.”  I tried to sit and wait for a reply, but I felt bad sitting at a computer that other people were waiting to use while my screaming baby protested. I clicked the refresh button incessantly, to no avail. So back to the pub we went.

(Oh boy.  TJ has been doing a lot of screaming in this post.  Here's a pic of him a few months ago looking WAY cute.)

Next stop: The Station House Pub.

Upon fumbly pub arrival number two, the bartender mumbled, “Oh, hey ya, I tink yar hoosband rang ye.  I told em yar was lacked out.” I asked if he knew if he was leaving work to come and rescue us, and he said a whole bunch of whotheheckknows and so I smiled and nodded and said, “Ok, well I guess we’ll take a seat and have lunch while we wait.” 

I knew they served chicken fingers and French fries, because I’ve had them there before.  So hastily and without looking at the menu, I ordered them from the cook.  “Chicken fangars?  What the feck are chicken fangars?”  Clearly, chicken fingers aren’t a thing in Ireland.  “Well I jast make ye some breaded chicken and some chips then, ya?”  Whatever dude…

So I picked a little half-closed off space in the back of the pub because it was kind of dark and cozy and I thought TJ would maybe snooze for a bit in his buggy in the corner (Irish pronounce it “boogie”), but as soon as we got settled, in comes an old priest with his bible, notebook and reading glasses and plops down next to us.  I assume he was possibly writing a sermon, or homily, or eulogy, or [insert religious term here].  He seemed very familiar with the space, as though he had done some major contemplating there before.  TJ was immediately enthralled with him, because he seems to swoon over friendly grandpa-types, and he couldn’t help but coo, giggle, scream, laugh, etc.,…anything to catch the poor guy’s attention.  I quickly realized that a nap was out of the question at that point. 

I begrudgingly shared my super healthy fried chicken and chips with TJ (ugh, mother of the year) and halfway into the meal I turned my head and there he was.  My glorious husband Mark.  I swear I thought I saw a halo emanating from his lovely, shiny, soft, smooth head.  I was worried that he might be upset because he had to come home from work, but he just smiled.  I apologized profusely, but he said, “Hey, I’m surprised one of us didn’t do it sooner.  The door automatically locks…no worries.” 

Man, it was so great to see him.  He was in London the day before and overnight on a business trip, and his Dublin project has him working a heap of overtime.  Selfishly, I smiled to myself because although it sucked being locked out of the cottage and dragging TJ on a wild goose chase of basic necessities, I got to see my husband EARLY for a change, and I felt really darn lucky.

***

Speaking of luck, living in Ireland has been a fantastic experience.  It really has.  But it also has been filled with challenges, for both my husband and I individually and as a couple.  I have been feeling guilty because my intention has been to write numerous blog posts about all of our adventures while here in Ireland, and that hasn’t happened yet.  Don’t get me wrong – we have been exploring, taking pics, meeting people and learning new things.  But we have also been lonely, homesick, exhausted and a little, well, depressed.  The pressure of writing and reflecting have taken a back seat to other challenges and priorities.  I hope to backtrack and reflect on our complete Irish experience in future blog posts.  

When the time is right, I shall.

Until then, I’ll just remind myself that TJ and I survived being locked out of our cottage, and Mommy was resourceful enough to just go with the flow.  I experienced good, great, bad and ugly today, and I also earned a bonus:  

I was able to write about it.   

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UPDATE:

I'd like to think that I learned from my experience of dropping my phone into Howth Harbor.  I crafted a "phone leash" for my new phone as soon as it arrived:

I made it from one of these Goody brand Stay Put headbands:  

I figured the fact that they're called "Stay Put" couldn't hurt, right? Well, now when I go for walks, am on the train, taking pics near water, or anywhere for that matter, my phone leash is wrapped twice around my wrist.  It has already saved me from a few disasters.

It couldn't save me, however, from locking myself out of our cottage today.  Perhaps it's time to fashion a key leash...

Ramble tethered to a stay put leash,

The Rambling Richter