You’re not seeing things. Believe it or not, I’ve posted a blog. Which, I realize, is almost as magical as the leprechaun stories I’m about to tell you…
With my impending deadline to turn in the Situation Momedy sequel to my publisher, I made a promise to my agent, my editor, and myself, to refrain from writing anything outside of my book until it’s done. This blog post is in clear violation of said promise, but I just couldn’t help myself. St. Patrick’s Day brought a streak of hilarious anecdotes to our house, and I couldn’t resist sharing them with you– book deadline or no book deadline.
It all began on St.Patrick’s Day eve, when Gray requested a bedtime story. Typical bedtime story fare at our house generally entails a handful of wacky items or topics my daughter pulls out of her mental hat with the expectation I’ll string them together in some sort of fantastically woven tale that culminates in a happy ending. Consequently, I was expecting something akin to, “Mommy, can you tell me a story about a porcupine wearing rain boots who met a pumpkin that ate too much candy and grew wings?” Instead, I was asked, “Mommy, can you tell me a bedtime story about a St. Patrick’s Day leper?” Insert a pregnant pause as I attempted to fight off the visual of a not-so-magically delicious little green guy in a top hat and elf shoes, ravaged by infection. I also resisted the urge to answer “Is that the one where the rainbow leads to the quarantined colony instead of the pot of gold?” or “Is that the one where his shamrock falls off?” (Not PC, I know, and WAY over a three-year-old’s head, but… that’s just where my wonderfully warped little brain went.) Instead, I stifled my fit of giggles, looked at Gray and said, “I don’t think that story will have quite the happy ending you were hoping for. How about I tell one about leprechauns instead?” Thankfully, she agreed.
The following day generated even more fun. I’d barely made it through a cup of much-needed coffee before my daughter woke up, came running into the room and squealed, “Mommy, Mommy, I can’t wait to see the mess all of the little leprechauns made last night!” In my under-caffeinated fog, my mind fished around for whatever stupid idea I must have implanted in my kid’s head during that bedtime story the night before. I came up short.
“What kind of mess, Gray?” I asked, even though I was somewhat afraid of the answer.
“Leprechauns are mischief-makers,” she told me. “They come to your house on the night before St. Patrick’s Day and make a big mess in every room. I’m so excited to see what kind of crazy stuff our leprechaun did!” Oh crap. My peaceful morning suddenly took a sinister turn and the weight of my motherly duties began to sink in. Apparently my new and improved name was “Leprechaun,” and there was some seriously impish trouble-making in my near future.
I searched for someone to blame. Who told my kid to look forward to leprechauns? More importantly, how come they didn’t give me fair warning? The Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy get advanced notice. Hell, Santa gets at least a three-month heads up before Christmas, when every department store encourages the yuletide to prematurely puke all over its aisles like a raging flu. I tried to thwart Gray’s enthusiasm for leprechaun scouting with breakfast.
“You’ll need to eat something first,” I informed my overzealous tiny human, all the while blocking her view from the other rooms in the house so she couldn’t see the surprisingly immaculate state of tidiness. I threw a waffle at her and raced downstairs to do the very last thing my OCD, micromanaging soul wanted to do… wreak havoc on a clean house.
Really? Leprechauns coming to turn my house upside down? Don’t my kids do enough of that on their own? I thought as I expertly tossed her bedroom like a cat burglar. I pitched puzzle pieces into the air, sent dress-up clothes flying, and hurled pillows and stuffed animals like they were volleyballs. Dolls lost their shoes in a frenzy of masterful, St.Patrick’s Day madness. I admired my devoted mommy handiwork and raced back upstairs, silently cursing those damned leprechauns for not hiring a housekeeper to clean up after them.
My daughter was taking the last bite of her waffle as I arrived, and she ran past me to scope out the destruction. I’d narrowly escaped getting caught, and quickly went to work on the upstairs while she was inspecting her bedroom. I recently signed up for a circuit-training style boot camp, and the trainer told us to squeeze in some cardio during the off days. I’m pretty sure this wasn’t he’d had in mind.
I grinned broadly when Gray returned and spotted the ransacked living room. “They came!” she gasped in delight. “They actually came! You should see how much trouble they got in downstairs, Mommy. Isn’t it great?” Yeah, kid, it’s awesome. So awesome, in fact, I’m hyperventilating and dreaming about a glass of wine at 8am. But my mommy pride breathed a sigh of relief; crisis averted. I’d somehow managed to pull off this whole charade without ruining the magic! Hallelujah!
And that’s when Gray turned to me and said, “Now I need to go outside and check the rocks for X’s.”
Say what? My jaw dropped like the Times Square New Year’s Eve ball. “What X’s?” I asked casually, while I threw up a little in my mouth.
“You know,” she said, “the leprechauns mark the rocks outside so I know where to dig for the buried treasure.”
Until next time… Peace, Love, and Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. You can buy my book, Situation Momedy HERE!! (It makes a perfect baby shower gift!)