The day I decided to have a baby on my own, I met a famous Irish movie star at a Sam Shepard play and asked if he wanted to be my anonymous sperm donor. When he apologized that he’d recently had a vasectomy (“I’m fixed, darlin’!”), I asked if he knew Colin Farrell.
Which is to say, I’ve always been obsessed with the Irish. Growing up in Massachusetts in a tight-knit Jewish family that never drank much or mingled, many of my friends were from wicked fun and wickedly funny Irish families, who socialized like it was a high art. I idolized them, and all their shenanigans.
My Irish fetish never faded. And why would it? Samuel Beckett. Sharon Horgan! Sweater weather. The Boston Celtics. Irish twins. Irish goodbyes. Irish coffee. Lucky Charms! Normal People. The Hot Priest! Stoicism. Chitchat. Guilt. Humor! Hell!
When I did indeed get pregnant with an anonymous sperm donor (not Irish, as I ultimately didn’t want to deal with the sunblock) my mother urged me not to name an innocent child “Siobhan Shelasky.” So instead, I leaned into mainstream Irish grandma-core, and named my baby Hazel.
Hazel is now nine years old. And a lot has happened. I met a great guy (a quarter Irish!) when she was a baby, and we’ve since had another child, a boy, named River. We all love each other very much—but possibly not quite as much as Hazel loves Taylor Swift.
So, with the news that The Eras Tour was coming to Dublin, coupled with my uncanny attachment to Ireland, we (well, I) decided to plan a family trip there. Hazel and I would go to the concert, and then the four of us would explore the country I’ve romanticized forever.
In case our travel plans went sideways, I waited until the airport to tell Hazel about the concert. To maximize the reveal, I pulled some strings to get us into the new, super-luxe Delta One lounge—the It girl of all airport lounges, according to the deities at Las Culturistas. We sat down at a bistro table that felt like we were in Balthazaar, and I handed Hazel a present of 30 friendship bracelets, code for: We are going to Taylor Swift! We screamed. We cried. Then instantly, a beaming tween ran over and asked Hazel if she wanted to swap bracelets, and if they could be friends. Then another Delta One Swiftie came over. And another! Each time, my heart swelled.
