I have been to over a hundred St. Patrick’s Day parades. That might sound like an exaggeration, but it’s not. I spent my childhood going to at least three parades a year, usually more. There was the one by my grandmother’s house, the one by my father’s firehouse, the one in Park Slope (where no one lived, but Prospect Park is nice so we went) and, of course, the one in the City.
This year I took my daughter to her first parade. Not Fifth Avenue, obviously. At five months old, she’s too young to spend the entire day in Manhattan (although we’ll be there soon enough!), so we went to the parade in Rockaway, Queens, where my grandmother lives. She doesn’t remember the parade, probably didn’t even realize what was happening while it was happening. We didn’t make it the whole parade–we only made it for an hour or so before she was tired and needed to walk to fall asleep. But I was glad we went. My grandmother was glad we went. It was nice to continue the tradition of parade-going.
And boy did my girl look cute in her St. Patrick’s Day outfit with her shamrock on the butt!