We are now living in Dublin. It’s a beautiful place, lots of things to see and do. I kind of wish I’d lived here when I was young and free but we’ve found a lovely leafy spot to live, about a 40mins walk from the centre of town.
That’s right. Forty minutes.
We are now car-less and TV-less and I’m hoping to keep it that way. Sure it’s a bit inconvenient but we are walking much more, which is nice. However, our five year old is getting crabbier a lot more too.
I’ve seen a lot of these about – a baby carriage with a kind of extra undercarriage for kids with tired legs. There’s variations of course, stroller stands and scooters (although how one pushes this, I can’t imagine). When I see these, I try not to judge. The same as when I see chattering infants with dummies in their mouthes; or worse, with a set of rotting baby teeth. I try not to judge. I really do.
It’s just that … we were always told to walk, right? It didn’t matter that we were tired, or that we’d been traipsing around shops for hours – OUTSIDE (none of these new-fangled air conditioned shopping malls you kids have these days!), or that The A-Team was on in 20mins. We still had to walk, bawling, tears and two lines of snot running down our faces. Walking like particularly slow and rotten extras in the Walking Dead, but walking nonetheless. It was character building, right?
Of course, this holier than thou insistence on my children walking means that if they really can’t go on then I have to help them by offering my shoulders or a piggy back and, annoyingly, I can’t grumble after I’d insisted that they walk. I was hoping all this walking and carrying would have led to a new fit, strong Dublin body, but is yet to materialise.