I couldn't resist this:
My little Irish boy. I have never really cared about St. Patrick's Day (although I have consumed plenty of green beer in my day); but today we decided to take the kids to the St. Patrick's Day parade in St. Paul. This could have been a disaster, considering the last time Clare was at a parade she had a complete meltdown, but luckily we grabbed a spot in the skyway. It was relatively quiet, and Clare could view all of the parade antics from a safe distance. (Antics included: actual Irish Wolfhounds, a terrifying giant Irish Wolfhound costume, a marching band composed of miserable looking seventh graders, and a man marching with his clan while carrying, and drinking from, a 24-pack of MGD . Ben was disgusted. "He should at least be carrying a 24-pack of Harps!" he said.)
It always seemed to me that Irish people were inordinately proud of their heritage. I do not have a drop of Irish blood. I do remember doing a genealogy project in Fourth Grade, though, and finding out that my friend Sarah and I were the only members of our class with Czech ancestors. I thought that was pretty cool. I also still think it is kind of neat that I could be a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, although they might kick me out if they found out that I also have ancestors who were Hessian soldiers.
So I guess I kind of understand what it is like to be proud of your ancestry, even if we don't all have parades. Since I am married to a man with a significant amount of Irish blood, I think I'll continue to drink as much green beer as I please.
(As an aside, the last time I went out on St. Patrick's Day in the Twin Cities, I went to the Dubliner with a few friends, including my friend Scott. Scott picked me up in his ancient car and handed me an enormous flashlight. Floodlight, really. "My headlights aren't working," he said. "Shine that out the window." No one who knows Scott will be surprised by this story.)