Woo-hoo! St. Pat’s Day!

OK, now that I got that out of my system, I can continue on. I love St. Patrick’s Day. Those who have seen my last name can tell I’m just a wee bit Irish. Mostly Irish, truthfully.

I find that I fit many of the Irish stereotypes out there: I have a hard to pronounce “Mc” name, I love corned beef and cabbage, soda bread, and potatoes, I’m very pale skinned, I love Irish music (I used to be an Irish dancer), and I used to have a temper that makes people afraid of me when I’m really angry. Oh, and I can drink most people under the table. Sure, they’re stereotypes, but I don’t care – it’s who I am, and I’m proud of it.

Cordy is, of course, half Irish. She has all of the looks, most of the temper, eats all of the Irish food, and has a love of Irish music. Not sure about the drinking part yet, but I’ll bet she’s got her mommy’s whiskey blood.

Last year I took her to the Columbus parade when she was just five months old. She loved it, and everyone adored her in her mommy-made dress.

It was the first year I wasn’t out at a pub somewhere living it up. Even the year I was pregnant I was at a pub, although not drinking anything stronger than OJ & Sprite. Mommyhood changes everything, eh?

This year we went to the parade again, but I didn’t have the time to make a dress for her. Ah well, it was 35 degrees this year, so no one would have seen it under her coat, and she would have just been cold.

Amazingly, though, there was abundant sunshine that took the chill out of the air. It was great to see all of the people gathered for the parade. The street was a sea of green clothing and accessories, pasty-white faces with red cheeks and noses, Irish flags, and one confused Somali family walking past, bewildered at the sight.

The bright, clear day added to the upbeat nature of the parade. Everyone was in good spirits, including this leprechaun and his son.

Cordy was patient in watching the parade, although about halfway through (when the drums and bagpipes had already passed) she got upset. I put her up on my shoulders, which worked for a little while.

I let her down so we could pet the Irish wolfhound near us, but she tried to run out into the street, which earned her a trip right back into the stroller.

We also got to see some Irish dancers. I told Cordy to make a mental note of how they were dancing, because I fully intend for her to be an Irish dancer someday. (Kidding, folks – if she doesn’t want to dance, I won’t pressure her to. Well, not too much.)

The only problem we have with St. Patrick’s Day is that it’s not celebrated by the entire family. Aaron’s mother passed away suddenly 10 years ago on St. Patrick’s Day, so naturally he isn’t into the celebratory mood.

I have no intention of ever forcing him to participate in the festivities, although he’ll usually join in for the drinking part. It’s tough to fully celebrate when I know he’s having such a rough day emotionally, and I feel helpless when it comes to making him feel better. I’m trying to arrange a movie night tonight, just to get his mind off the real world for a little bit.

Hope everyone has a great St. Patrick’s Day!

Yesterday a coworker told me that she was pregnant. I had been expecting this, because over the past three months she’s asked me all sorts of questions about being a mother, pregnancy, and raising a child. The pregnancy was unexpected, but completely welcomed by her and her husband.

I, of course, expressed how happy I was for her. And then, it happened: advice began spewing from my mouth.

I couldn’t shut up.

Every tip I could think of came out my mouth in a flood.

Faster then you can say “first trimester” I had given her a list of all the best baby websites, places to buy maternity clothing and bras, good books to read and books to avoid, free baby magazines to sign up for, and the name, number, and web site listing for my OB/GYN.

I actually realized, while I was suffering from verbal diarrhea, that I was giving way too much unsolicited advice. However, my logical self appeared to be disconnected from my experienced mother self, and I watched from a distance as I asked her if her breasts hurt yet and told her about how miserable the third trimester is. It was truly an out of body experience. I even remember apologizing for giving her so much information, but then continuing on anyway.

Why do moms turn into crazy women when someone announces they’re pregnant? Suddenly we’re a Momopedia of information about birthing techniques and breastfeeding long before the poor woman has even experienced her first bout of morning sickness. What biological instinct turns some into raving maternal lunatics who cannot shut up around a pregnant woman?

I remember when I was pregnant, I had several friends and coworkers (and even strangers on the street!) attack me with all of their information. While I did appreciate some of it, most of it was information overload. Besides, I really didn’t want to hear all the birth horror stories that moms were overly-willing to share in graphic detail with a smile.

Luckily, my coworker seemed to understand my need to tell her about all things maternal, and at least pretended to listen intently. She even asked a question or two (which probably didn’t help). I hope she won’t go out of her way to hide from me after this. I don’t want to be that crazy mother that pregnant women run from.

Scene: Our house, 7:30pm. That 70’s Show has just ended on FX. Aaron and I are busy getting things ready to put Cordy to bed. The movie 28 Days Later is starting on FX.

Me: Hmmm, we should probably change the channel now.

Aaron: Yeah, we should. While I have no problem with Cordy following her daddy’s love of zombies, it’s a little too soon, I think.

Me: (changing the channel) Hey, look! Queen of the Damned is on SciFi.

Aaron: Because that’s clearly so much better for her.

Me: Awww, it’s fine. They’re not at the end of the movie, so there’s nothing gory on the screen. They’re just talking.

(Cordy walks up to the TV and watches)

Me: See? She likes it. (speaking to Cordy) These are vampires, sweetie. Modern vampires are very pretty. And that’s Stuart Townsend. We like Stuart Townsend. Can you say “yum”?

Aaron: Why do I have the feeling that someday we’ll be fighting over which type of undead Cordy finds cooler?

End scene. Please don’t call CPS on us.

Like the new look? A large, ultra-warm and grateful THANKS goes out to the very talented Danielle at Blog Makeover Diva for designing this new look for me!

If you’re looking for a new design, go check her out. She can help you get past the standard Blogger template and “flip your blog”.

Thanks Danielle – you’re fabulous!

Step right up, folks, and see the Amazing Counting Toddler! Marvel as she counts from one to six at only 17 months old. Witness as she places her toys in order as she counts. Watch her expertly skip the number four, but then repeat five to make up for it.

This is an event not to be missed! All ages welcome!

Seriously, though, I finally caught Cordy on tape as she was practicing her counting. What you won’t see are the other 15 times she counts to six within the five minutes I videotaped.

And you also won’t hear the 1,000 or more times she does it every. single. day. I can’t get her to say anything else at the moment:

“Hi Cordy, how are you?”
“One. Two. Three…”

“Cordelia, would you like some lunch?”
“One! Twwoooo!…”

We’ve also made a little progress with the whole “mama” deal. This morning, as I came downstairs, she rushed over to greet me and said, “da-daaa!” Well, I suppose that’s closer than we were.