Esther McCarthy: It'll be life's mundane moments that will make our memoirs
Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn
Our brilliant guest editor for this week, Annmarie O’Connor, told me her focus for this issue was going to be the idea that our lives are memoirs in the making.
We all have those moments don’t we — the ones that change us, for better or worse.
The scary things that sideswipe you when you least expect it: The calls with the worst news in the middle of the night; the devastating diagnoses; and all the major and minor disasters that are simply the cost of living.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that — about what to write along this theme of big moments.
Every day we make these choices, small and mundane, that quietly lead us down our path.
As Soren Kierkegaard said: “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
I’m trying, consciously, to live forwards. To be present. To stay in the moment, while keeping an eye on tomorrow.
So instead of writing about something from the past, or dreaming of the far future, I want to tell you about my favourite part of the day, right now.
Every morning, after the usual chaos of roaring at the lads to get out of bed, burning the toast, digging for missing lunchboxes, and bickering for the last of the milk, my youngest son, the dog, and I head out the front door.
We leave the rest of them to figure out where the matching socks are, who hid the bike helmets, and why the cat looks a bit peaky.
By 8.15am, we’re on our way — a 20-minute walk to school if we take it easy. We have our little route, crossing the busy road by the ESB and turning into the SMA grounds.
As soon as we pass through the gate, it’s like a different world.
Rabbits hop about, the trees make a leafy canopy overhead, and the sunlight filters through in soft dapples as we balance along the mossy kerb. You wouldn’t know there’s a busy roundabout roaring just beyond the wall.
We slow down here. This is my favourite part. The air smells green, damp with morning. This is where we have our best chats.
Birds are singing, like they're auditioning for a Disney movie.
There’s a stillness but an energy that’s something special. Further up, nearer the priest's house, there’s a polytunnel, wild flowers, and a compost heap that drives the dog delirious.
We used to cycle, before the summer, but the 10-year-old said there wasn’t enough time to talk. So, now we walk.
We stroll past the parish hall and church, and then we’re back to reality — roads, zebra crossings, and the morning buzz of other people.
I leave him at the school gate, transferring over his bag that’s too big for him, with a squeeze. He’s too old for kisses, but we both say: “Bye, love you.”
He’ll probably get too old for that soon too. Then it’s just me and Bodhi, heading back the long way home.
We used to turn left, past the library, until we started meeting a woman on her way to work.
She was always in a fury — muttering, throwing her hands up dramatically as we pass her on the path. One morning she barked at me: “His lead should be shorter.”
Bodhi barked back cheerfully, delighted to be noticed. The eejit.
I take a different route now. The first time it happened I was a bit put out, but who knows what she’s dealing with before 9am?
I use Mel Robbins’s “let them” mantra. It’s not bad advice for dealing with things you can’t control. This lady wants to be cross in the morning? Let her.
I say hello to the attendant catching the early parkers who park in Wilton, maybe trying to avoid the CUH fees.
I salute the Penneys workers unpacking boxes by the loading bay. And we always stop for the curly-haired girl with the backpack — she gives Bodhi a pat and me a smile.
None of this is life-changing or monumental, but I think these are the moments that will stay with me.
When the 10-year-old is off gallivanting in Australia or walking his own kids to school, this is what I’ll remember: The slow walks, the silly chats, the smell of wet grass, and the dot of toothpaste on his jumper.
I hope these mundane minutes make the backdrop to fond, fuzzy memories of when his mornings once started with his mam and her unbrushed hair, the bouncy dog, and the world slowly waking around us.
Maybe, years from now, the hum of a bee on a lavender bush or the earthy scent of compost will pull us both back to these early walks — our shared rhythm, our chatter, our easy togetherness.
This, right here, is our memoir in the making.
