Life is life, afterall.
Originally posted on The Myopic Life:
Saturday before last was St. Patrick’s Day, not a holiday I really get into. Green is not my color; the only green I ever wore as a kid was my Girl Scout t-shirt. And since my family eschewed alcohol of any kind, I didn’t know about the actual fun side of this dumb holiday until well into adulthood. To me, it was just a day to get pinched. Which is what happened last year to Emily, leaving her spitting mad by day’s end. She doesn’t own green either. Tall and skinny Ethan, on the other hand, found a stray green t-shirt and a pair of green windpants. He looked like a blade of grass.
I was relieved this year when the “holiday” fell on a weekend. That Saturday morning, reluctantly committed to not raising a bunch of cynics, I drew my brood outside early. The grass was still dripping with dew. The yard had five mounds of clover so large the neighbors thought we were intentionally cultivating it. We sat and looked for four-leaf clovers for the longest time. You’d think that with clovers nearly the size of my palm, this would have been a productive endeavor.