When in Doubt, Blame a Leprechaun

Milo and Bunny, 2016.

At 5:51 a.m. on this St. Patrick’s Day, I was stirred from my bed by two grandchildren shouting that I must come downstairs right away to see the chaos left behind by a burgling leprechaun.

This was an emergency.

With great enthusiasm, they pointed out disaster upon disaster in their house, noting every single thing out of place. Such fascinating memories for children who, like most kids, sometimes fail to put things away because they have no idea where they should go.

A roll of toilet paper atop the orchid? The absurdity!

Windex in the refrigerator? Mommy’s going to lose her mind!

Green water in the toilet? Who does that?

A leprechaun, that’s who.

One of Ela’s roller skates was hanging from the coatrack on the kitchen door. “I can’t even reach it,” she said, raising her hands high, thus offering proof that she could not possibly be indicted for this train wreck of a kitchen.

This did not stop brother Milo from speculating, briefly, that the only family member who could have created this mayhem is Ela. She does, he may have mentioned, know best how to annoy him. “Look,” he said, pointing to his recently assembled LEGO R2D2 straddling the top of the turntable, his eyebrows raised to Level Five.

Quickly, though, he dropped this theory. It’s far more fun to blame a leprechaun than someone you love. I’m going to put this theory into practice more often.

These two grandchildren have deep roots in Ireland, on their mother’s side. On their father’s side, they have more recent beginnings in El Salvador. From all directions, they descend from heroes. It takes courage to uproot lives to flee—from famine in Ireland, from civil unrest in El Salvador--to save the people you love. This bravery, this deep love for family, is my grandchildren’s inheritance. It is the story of so many of us in America.  

We are now moving on here in the wake of leprechaun mayhem. Milo and Ela are building a fort around an upturned chair. I have discovered the coffee pot hidden in a cupboard—a mad search, that one-- and a dark roast is now brewing. In Ela’s painting on the easel, birds are currently flying upside down, oblivious to their changed circumstances. We are an adaptable bunch.

Our Sunday has begun. Time to lift the glass of green wine we found on the counter and offer a toast: Happy St. Patrick’s Day from our family to yours. No matter how you found your way here, we’re in it together now.