Leprechauns used to visit the house where I grew up.  They came through the vents.  True story.

Every March 16, before we went to bed, my sisters and I would carefully open the floor vents in each of our respective bedrooms—to allow the Leprechauns safe passage, you know.  Every morning, we’d see that our attention paid off, as gold-foiled chocolates and pennies would always be beside our beds when we awoke.  We’d trot downstairs to find mom making green waffles and green scrambled eggs served up over clover-themed placemats; it really was like magic.  We’d have shamrock sugar cookies when we came home from school, and we usually had Guinness stew for dinner.

The best part? We’re not a lick Irish.  Not. A. Lick.

I can’t really remember when all of this ended; when we stopped being innocent and carefree and into believing in our little green vent-men.  My dad will definitely be pouring a few tonight, and mom still has those placemats, but it just isn’t quite the same.

I got a text from my sister this morning: “you’d better be wearing your Guinness underpants.”  We all have them.  It’s kind of a weird thing.

I don’t have too many outward St. Patrick’s Day traditions anymore.  I did wear a green sweater today, and there’s Irish Soda Bread in the oven now (with many thanks to Heidi for the awesome recipe!).  It’s in the little things, I think.  And when I have kids? Those Leprechauns, they’ll be back.