“Mom!”
My middle child said in the midst of him getting ready for bed.
“We forgot to set Leprechaun traps!! It’s St. Patrick’s Feast Day tomorrow and the Leprechauns always come the night before the Feast day.”
He does? This is news to me.
My experiences with St. Patrick’s Day involved lots of good cheer, Irish Soda Bread made by my mom and later, by me. But Leprechauns? I assumed they stayed in Ireland. And I most certainly never encountered one, let alone set a trap to catch one.
But the boys scurried, the youngest popped his “I was just kidding, you and I both know I wasn’t asleep yet” head out of his bedroom.
“Leprechaun Traps!?” he said.
“Go to bed!”
The older boys snuck a few extra minutes of time in before settling in for bed and elaborate traps were set.
“They probably won’t get through his trap Mom,” the middle said pointing to his older brother, “he set it up super well. But I think maybe he might get through mine.”
I could see my middle’s eyes shimmering.
I remember when I walked through a forest in Ireland. My dad offered to sponsor the trip for my siblings and I in honor of his 65th birthday over Christmas. My husband and I had the only itty bitty children of my siblings but a trip with my family to Ireland? We wouldn’t dare pass it up.
It wasn’t an easy or smooth experience traveling abroad with a nine month old who had (unbeknownst to us) a double ear infection and a two and a half year old who was just deciding naps meant staying up until the wee hours of the night.
So walking through the forest, a soft rain creating a canopy of sparkling moss above us, was a gift when I needed it most. My normally boisterous and “Daddy’s boy” oldest walked beside me and reached for my hand.
The sleepless nights, the tears, the desire to enjoy just A beer or two with the gang of adults instead of being trapped in the Airbnb with two children and a husband who couldn’t sleep faded away with the mist.
“Look,” I whispered, twisting my head close to his and peering into the woods, “did you see that?”
He drew his eyes to mine and then looked into the woods as well.
“Snake?” He said.
I laughed, “no! But maybe a little person? I could be wrong. Sometimes I see things that aren’t there.”
His tenacious gaze looked out again into the woods, his mouth pulled into a tight frown and his eyes open wide.
We spent the rest of that meandering walk searching for little people that may or may not have been there.
It is the magic I remember in that moment that carries into the night before St. Patrick’s Day. The glimmer in my middle child’s eye is a glimmer all parents want to find ways to make last forever. It is why, I think, when I asked my dad at twelve if Santa Claus was real he said the spirit of Santa Claus is real and what I heard was – I believe.
There is magic in the world. There is hope.
Just ask my boys tomorrow morning
Embracing Next 