I give in...

Happy Belated St. Patrick's Day to you all. I know I have written, more than once, about my hatred of this day. but it seems since the year we sold the house on this most Irish of days, my opinion has been slowly changing, thanks, in part, to my kids.

Once you have kids, holidays that once seemed created especially by Hallmark, like St. Patrick's Day, are among the highlights of your year because your kids get so excited about them. St. Pat's used to be a day I spent dodging drunks on the sidewalk on my way home from work, wondering why the hell this holiday was ever created. Now, I start buying my kids' green outfits in February, complete with sparkly, boing-y antennaed shamrock headbands for the girls and a giant, green bow tie for Little Man. Why, you might ask, has my hatred turned to mild affection? It's two-fold.

First, my children are the third generation from Irish immigrants, and the further away we get from that, the harder it is to make a strong connection to our past. They never had an opportunity to meet my grandmother, Mary Brady, and subsequently, not be able to understand a damn word she said, so thick was her brogue, so they will never her first-hand stories of how they would dip butter in the sugar bowl as a treat when she was a girl, or my grandfather running poitín* from the small island he was from off the coast of Ireland. Gaelic phrases will not pepper the holiday dinner conversation (unlike any actual spices in the meal) like they did when I was a child, allowing us to laugh like idiots when we could tell our enemies to "pogue mahone"** because no one knew we were swearing. They won't understand calling someone "shanty" is an insult and "lace curtain" is a compliment.***

So I have decided to take this holiday as a chance to bring them closer to their culture. Despite their last name, they are 75% Irish and I have to work hard to have them remember that, so immersed are we in Italian culture. This year we made soda bread, listened to Irish music - they were a little confused by Finnegan's Wake, "Is he sleeping?" - and thanks to a demonstration by #2's teacher, the idea of step dancing lessons is being thrown about. Maybe the cultural lesson will not be the highlight for them, and will be overshadowed by the green necklaces I buy them and the leprechaun trap they insisted on building the night before (in which I left a sassy "Try again next year! Erin go bragh!" note for them to find the next morning), but I will feel like I haven't let my heritage die a slow death due to neglect.

The second reason for the renaissance St. Paddy's Day is having in my life is due to a change in my own, narrow, mindset. I complained bitterly about the non-Irish flaunting Irish stereotypes as an insult to truly Irish people. "Everyone's Irish today" used to piss me off. Can you imagine anyone saying, "Today, everyone is Puerto Rican" or "Today everyone is Chinese?"? No, you can't because no other people are as fun-loving and inclusive as the Irish - especially after a few pints. Sure, we preach a lot of Catholic nonsense, and have hot tempers, but the Irish are sentimental poets who love a good time. What other culture throws a parade and invites the whole world to join in? If everyone wants to be Irishman on the seventeenth, it's a compliment and I consider myself lucky to be one.

So yesterday, I was really going to embrace the spirit of the day. You all know my conundrum with going to the parade, but I solved it by asking my sitter, S, to stay late, H took the day off, and we were headed into NYC. Unil, Little Man woke up. He could barely stand. I thought H had dropped him on his foot and was shooting him daggers, but after a quick trip to the doctor, we discovered he has Transient Toxic Synovitis (which sounds scary, but isn't - click the link if you don't believe me). Luckily the doctor is a friend and after telling my his advice for LM was to lie on the couch and watch movies all day, his advice for H and I was to go into the city since staring at him wouldn't make him better and he was in good spirits.

So off we went, like the bad parents I'm sure you think we are, but by this point is was too late to get into the city and make it back by dinner. We decided, instead, to got our old 'hood in Hoboken and find a bar. I have closed bars before, but never opened one, so it was an interesting experience being among the first people in a place on St. Patrick's Day who don't look like they've slept in the place(see photo, ye, I'm even wearing green). The bar we chose was right across from the PATH train to NYC, and while we had a great time looking out the bar's windows to watch the huge crowd of freaks headed in to the parade due to the fantastic weather (hot pants and green bowler hat, really?) and I was jealous. I wanted to be among them! So I made H promise we'd go next year, and his brother and future wife promised to come with us, which being, on a Saturday in 2012, is sure to be a hot mess if my trip in with my family on the Saturday St. Pat's of 1999 is any indication (it involved a lot of singing in a very crowded pub).

I was all happy, and pretty drunk, leaving the bar later that afternoon, assured I would have my chance to drunkenly carouse full of Irish spirit(s) next year. Until I realized, a Saturday parade would mean the kids would want to come. Which I will probably be guilted into doing****, so I'll be the annoying old lady, aggravated by all the drunks around her kids. Which seems pretty unfair, since it's the kids who started this new-found love affair to begin with.

Oh well, "Is fhearr fheuchainn na bhith san duil"*****


*Yeah, yeah, my grandfather was a bootlegger. Don't be jealous I have bad-ass in my blood. That and, obviously, alcoholism, but let's not mention that....
**Kiss my ass
***Lace curtain are people of money, shanty are poor, but not just poor, poor and classless
****Talk me out of bringing them, J!
*****It is better to try than to hope