I began the day (after I raced around getting my sleepy kids ready for school - note to self: make them go to bed earlier) by jotting down what I was going to accomplish.
|All that was left of Irish soda bread tonight, but I'll be baking more tomorrow.|
Guess what got done? Everything . . . except writing for my blog.
|Shamrocks appeared smaller at the store . . . then I put them on!|
I don't babysit for the munchkins on Friday. It was slightly inconvenient that St. Pat's fell on my catch-all day. Regular everyday stuff collided with being-Irish activities. I admit that it was nice to not add 'dinner' to my list. Coach wanted to make dinner. I don't eat fish. He planned to make salmon. I don't enjoy the smell of fish. At least he grilled it. Still, I should've added to my list: remove the fish smell from my house.
Coach and I have plans to go to a party tomorrow night, but the kids scoffed at me for not racing to an Irish bar tonight. I reminded them that we are Irish everyday. Driving to Irish dancing practice three nights a week in addition to shuffling to Irish music lessons another night fulfills my quota for celebrating my Irish-ness. I am surrounded regularly by Irish tunes, Irish dance steps, and our offspring's Irish faces. I consider that box checked.
Now that it's after 9 pm, I'm finally sitting in front of my computer. My creative juices might not cooperate. I was grappling all day with which Irish angle I would approach - when I finally found the time. Hard to know where to start . . .
There's my Irish upbringing. I hated that my folks made me take Irish dance lessons for 8 years. I danced like a newborn colt. Being tall, my lack of control over my floppy legs interfered with my ability to rake in many medals. I once asked my mom if I could quit. She explained that I was the bonus kid.
My folks paid $3 a piece for my sisters to dance each week. The third dancer was a buck. If I quit, our family would lose out on that incredible deal of a lifetime. Somehow this made sense to me, and I accepted my role as the 'one-buck-bonus' dancer.
My brother, Pat, was always hailed for his wonderful tin whistle playing. I asked if I could take whistle lessons too. I felt that I had a better chance of discovering my hidden talent if judges weren't concerned that I might kick them in the face.
My parents explained that they were already paying for Pat to take lessons. They suggested that I arrange for Pat to teach me. Again with the bargain mentality. After swallowing my older-sister pride, I attend a few scheduled lessons. There was barely enough room in Pat's bedroom for me and his ego.
|Curly got a lot of mileage out of this t-shirt.|
Years later I spent my junior year in Ireland. What an experience . . . and the stories! Endless.
Now, I have Irish dancers, who love it! They wear leg tanner, wigs, and pricey dresses - which none of us love. I had a t-shirt made for Curly when she was a toddler. She wore the shirt to her older sibling's competitions. Her pile of blond curls inspired me. The t-shirt read: 'Reel dancers don't wear wigs.'
Oh, how I miss the days of $1 lessons, real hair, and natural skin color. I now pay my brother and his wife to teach my kids Irish music. Dealing with his ego is still a struggle.
So you see, lots of Irish angles. Not enough time to tell them all tonight. Stay tuned . . .