Monday, March 17, 2014

Happy St. Patrick's Day

I hope you all have a nice St. Patrick's Day, whether you celebrate the holiday or not. We will be doing our regular school schedule and don't have anything special planned. The boys do have a painting project today. Even though it's for a study on the illustrator Eric Carle, maybe we'll do it in different shades of green in light of the holiday. I didn't even buy corned beef or cabbage this year. I should have because I like it. Apparently, in Ireland they eat Irish bacon and cabbage on this day to celebrate St. Patrick's life. Check out this link for more.

Do you know what's really weird? I am forty-nine years old and this is the first St. Patrick's Day where I know I have Irish blood in me. Apparently, my grandmother's family (on my dad's side) came from Ireland. I found this out after my mom died last October. You would think I'd be happy to learn where I came from, especially since all my life I've done nothing but wonder. Now that I know though, it just makes me mad. Why didn't my mom tell me? The only thing she did tell me was that my dad named me after a little, old Irish woman he used to work with. That was my only Irish-connection I knew of—until now—if that's even true.

What I find strange is that when my mom worked as a nurse at one hospital, there was this little Irish lady that she adored. I think her name was Teresa. She wouldn't speak, but she hummed and mumbled. The one song she sang was "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling". My mom loved her and they used to sing this song together. I remember being so impressed with how well my mom dealt with her patients, especially this one lady. However, my mom obviously knew there was an Irish connection with her family—she just chose not to tell me. That bothers me because I spent my whole life wondering. Now that things with the remaining family members I have left have fallen apart, it doesn't mean much to me. That's sad. I know I still have a lot of anger issues to deal with. Everyone told me to "let it go", which is what I'm trying to do.

Ironically, I named my youngest child, Neil Patrick. He absolutely hates his middle name because he only associates it with Patrick Star from SpongeBob. I've told him over and over about St. Patrick and all the other interesting Patricks there are, but he still grumbles over it. Maybe with time he'll learn to love his name. Now that I've written this post and made myself depressed, I'm even more bummed I didn't get any corned beef or cabbage. I should have gotten a six-pack of Guiness too, but oh well ...

1 comment:

  1. Hugs Rena! From what you've written about your mom it sounds like she was a caring, devoted mother who adored you. Have you ever considered she was trying to protect you from your father's family? Maybe after your father passed they threatened to take you away from her. Maybe they wouldn't have been a good influence on you. Maybe they ran with the mob---who knows? In any case, it appears the only time your mom lied to you was regarding your father's family. I think that means something.
    I firmly believe, that for the most part, mothers do the very best they know how for their kids. From what you've written, it sounds like that's how your mom operated, too. Hugs again!