In July 2022, we visited Bray. You come out of the DART station, follow the little alleys with a Chinese, a coffee shop, a casino. Suddenly, the alley opens up, and you’re there on the Strand. Three big planters and wooden benches sit in front of Bray’s aquarium. Finbees coffee house tucked in next to it, separating you from the ocean.
It has a Manhattan Beach vibe (we’ll go there someday), but replace the volleyball nets with little huts selling 99’s with all the toppings.
We started the Bray to Greystones cliff walk, which hugs the eastern side of the island, arms reach from the UK. 30 minutes into the walk, the heat or the crossiant we got at Finbees was too much for you. You struggled to keep your eyes open.
So I picked you up and we finished the 9-kilometer walk with our chests pressed against each other, your Marvel t-shirt sweat through, your damp hair pressed against my neck.
But it’s the ride back to Dublin on the DART that stands out. We sat across from 3 women. You asked them their names, where they were from, where they were headed.
You told them your name, your age, and that you were from the United States.
I couldn’t talk to people like that when I was 14, nevermind 4. I felt a cocktail of emotions. Inspired, jealous, and overwhelmingly proud.
I always thought of you as the little mayor of Clancy Quay. You talked to everyone, but especially the adults. You knew the ongoings of CQ better than most: that Paul had hurt his knee, or Leila was on holiday, or where the new creche teachers were from (perhaps not that impressive since, sight unseen, you could guess Spain and be correct 90% of the time).
I loved this idea of you: our little mayor. The friendliest boy of CQ.
But the truth is, you’ve evolved away from that. Just like you evolved away from Paw Patrol (please god) and speaking Chinese (my fault).
Currently, you prefer playing with your best friend, Timmy, over anyone else. Instead of heading to the playground after school, you hang out outside the creche until he emerges.
You’re in your head more.
You say hi to adults a little less.
Which of course, is 100% ok. You’re figuring yourself out, just like we all are.
Laura, your teacher (she’s wonderful), mentioned she thinks it has to do with our move to the States.
“We could hear the rest of the class talking about being in after school and I watched him carefully to see his reaction,” she wrote.
“He looked concerned, and that is when we started talking.
“We had a little conversation today about him going and how is he feeling, its the first time he opened a little bit talking and told me about being nervous for making new friends. But for the rest he had a lovely day.”
I wish I could show you how special you are. How lucky any kid would be to call you their friend. Your EQ is through the roof. You share with other kids. You think of solutions. You watch out for Annabel.
Some of my favorite parts of the day are spent with you. Building Lego. Going to see movies. Watching suit-ups and talking about the origin stories of Captain America, Black Widow, and of course, Iron Man.
I love it all, but my favorite is reading Dog Man. Particularly the later ones, in the series once they introduce the Friendly Friends and they start singing about farts and diarrhea and poop.
Because your laughter is the best part. Snuggled up in bed, your hair damp from your bath, pressed against my neck, this shriek of a laugh comes straight from your gut as we sing the songs together.
This was the best year, my bud. The best is yet to come.
Happy birthday.
Love, Dad
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