If you saw a middle-aged woman wearing green yesterday, there’s a 99.9% chance she has a child in elementary school. On St Patrick’s Day, mothers of young children everywhere, scour their closets and dressers for anything green. If only to avoid the incessant ‘you’re going to get pi-inched’ sing-song that will follow them throughout the day if they don’t.
Way back on Valentine’s Day, a friend and I were talking about calendar-dictated celebrations like Valentine’s and St. Patrick’s Day and how we felt obligated to make these days memorably craftastic for our kids. (Yes, Martha, I blame you!) ‘My mom always wore [fancy] earrings,’ she reminisced, ‘I was just talking to her the other day and asked her how she did it, [made each celebration so special and memorable] and she said all I did was wear earrings.’
So the next day my friend gifted me with a pair of green, clover earrings, for the one-month-away St Patrick’s Day. Which turned out to be ‘a good thing’ since I don’t own any green clothes, it turns out. Save a green wool sweater that wouldn’t suffice on a near-fifty-degree day. (I’m not that scared of getting pinched by a seven year old Leprechaun.)
A Leprechaun, who decided to go all out for St Patrick’s Day, despite his decidedly non-Irish lineage.
I made the mistake of setting all his green clothing before him, assuming he would choose one item and wear it. Instead, he wore it all. Green socks. Green pants. Green t-shirt. Green sweater. Green hat. All in a muted army-green shade. The look was part Leprechaun, part Chairman Mao slash Fidel Castro.
‘I like your earrings,’ he remarked. And I wondered if, years from now, he too would remember how his mom had gone ‘all out’ for the Hallmark-and-candy-holidays.
When I picked him up after school, we drove to nearby Edworthy Park. What better way to celebrate St Patrick’s Day than with a walk along muddy, waterlogged trails?! I’d been in such a hurry to get to school on time that I’d neglected to bring Percy’s stroller along. ‘Agh, it will be fine,’ I tried to deceive myself.
Because eighteen month old boy-children are generally (1) capable of moving in a linear direction at a consistent pace, (2) more interested in exploring a trail than stopping to play in puddles of mud or water, (3) happy to exist in wet, dirty clothing….
or (4) none of the above.
It was a fairly painful experience, and I vowed – during and afterwards – not to set foot in a park again until all the snow had melted and the trails had dried. The only redeeming part of the excursion was that I got some sweet photos of my Leprechaun. Which I downloaded onto an external hard drive on my seconds-from-death computer…..yada yada yada….all the pictures are gone.
And less than twenty four hours later I found myself at the equally waterlogged trails of the Glenmore Reservoir. Though I’d retained a smidgen of St. Patrick’s Day wisdom, and brought along a stroller for young Percy.
Imagine: Cute picture of the Gort, dressed in green, smiling broadly.
Imagine: Cute picture of me wearing my green, clover earrings.
Imagine: Cute picture of the three walking along a dry patch of trail….the Gort and the Hen holding hands, voluntarily