I'm a lucky girl

I've always enjoyed St. Patrick's Day. Yes, I get to claim a bit of Irish in my ancestry, but mostly, I liked the fact that it was a mid-week excuse to hang out with my friends and drink beer.

I have a good buddy in Fort Worth whose birthday falls on St. Paddy's Day and he was/still is doubly cool 'cause he worked at (and now owns) a bar. When I was young and single and unencumbered and living in Texas, we'd all head down to the Blarney Stone every Thursday night - and especially on St. Patrick's Day - to party with our co-workers and friends.

Being an Irish pub, the place was always jammed on March 17.

And by jammed I mean wall to wall people packed in so tight, I often wondered how the Fire Marshal was never called. It took 15 minutes to get a beer, and you had to rely on other patrons to pass it over their heads to the back of the bar where you were standing. It was smoky and loud.

And it was, at that time, fun.

When I first moved to Phoenix, my St. Paddy's Day celebrations became a bit more sedate. But I almost always went out, usually to Rosie McCaffrey's, where the party spilled outside into the streets of downtown, or Skeptical Chymist, where we listened to great music. I hung out with co-workers, or my cousins, had a beer or two and talked about the news of the day.

And it was fun.

My, how times have changed. This year, St. Patrick's Day almost passed me by. It registered long enough for me to make a point of dressing Scott in a green shirt before I dropped him off at daycare. But that's about it. I spent most of the day chasing the Governor across Phoenix from one event to the next.

At one point, I had a moment of remorse: I was driving by Tempe Diablo Stadium and saw the Chicago Cubbies were playing there for a Spring Training game.

The sun was shining, it was warm, and I thought, "Man, wouldn't it be nice to sit outside, watch some baseball and drink a green beer?" Or, at the very least, grab some corned beef or a Guinness at The Dubliner down the street later tonight?

But that's not my reality anymore. There was work to do and then it was time to race home so my husband and I could feed the baby, give him his bath and hopefully get him to bed before he had a complete meltdown.

It was enough to make me a bit grumpy.

But then I came home and saw it. There on the refrigerator. The most amazing Shamrock and incredible piece of artwork I have ever seen.

Scott's St. Patrick's day painting. Note the careful finger smears.

Scott made it at daycare. It is his first official art project. They gave him cold green paint and let him rub his hands all over the place, and put it all together with a picture of him creating his masterpiece.

My budding Picasso with his first showpiece.

A close-up of the artist at work.

So now, I sit. I am on my couch in my sweats, sharing a glass of wine with my husband. My son is sleeping in his room, despite his nasty cold, and I have the coolest memento of St. Paddy's Day 2011 taped to my fridge.

The completed Shamrock in its place of honor.

It's a different kind of celebration. And I am loving every minute of it.