Can I Drink The Beer?
Our Trip to Ireland
June 2000
Ireland
We are planning a family trip
to Ireland. Sixteen of us will be going, three generations. We can hardly wait.
We span from ages 10 to 72, three generations, all proud of our Irish heritage.
The youngest, Danny at 12 Quentin at 10 are traveling without their mother. I
will be their guardian at this time. I have never had children so this is a
challenge to me.
We sit at the kitchen table
at my sister’s house when Danny asks his mom, “can I drink beer when I’m in
Ireland?”
“What”, she asks. She didn’t
hear him.
“When I’m in Ireland, can I
have a beer”, he asks innocently.
“It’s up to Bridget”, my
sister answers. “She’s in charge.”
Shit, shit, shit. I don’t
know how to respond to this question. I don’t have children. I don’t have a
clear understanding of the rules, guidelines, mandates, parameters, laws,
procedures, boundaries, regulations, and good judgment needed by parents when
it comes to young kids. I just don’t have clue. So I am stymied by this
question. I just pretend I don’t hear his question and move on to a new topic.
But Danny interrupts me and
asks, “Bridget, can I drink beer when I’m in Ireland?”
Damn, now I have to answer.
“Well”, I tell him, “we’ll
see,” That seems to appease him for the moment and he lets me move on to a new
topic.
Three weeks later we are in
Ireland, sitting at a local pub, enjoying ourselves, conversing with the locals
and delighting in this authentic Irish moment. Danny comes up to me and asks a
question.
“Can I try beer now”, he asks
in the sweetest little boy voice.
Shit, shit, shit. I don’t
want to be bugged during the whole trip with this question. So I have to do
something to put this request to rest. I
asked the bartender if he could pour me a glass of Guinness. He tells me he
just tapped a new keg and it is warm. All the better, I think. I ask him for
half a glass. I called Quentin and Danny over and tell them this is what all
beer taste like. I tell them to take a big sip and swallow. Danny goes first
and fills his mouth with the warm Guinness.
He doesn’t even swallow it before he spits the whole content of his
mouth back in the glass.
“This is awful. What is
this? What did you give?” he asks in
complete disbelief and dissatisfaction.
“That’s horrible,” he announces and pass the glass to his brother. Quentin
chooses not to taste the beer and hands me back the warm glass.
“That’s what all beer taste
like”, I tell them both with the satisfaction that I’m having resolved their
potential unending request to drink beer. For the rest of the trip they drink Sprite.
