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Browsing Tag: St. Patrick’s Day

It Bears Repeating

This is Margaret Claire Hetherington Nicholl. I used to call her Grandmom, but she’d be Peggy to you. I post this picture of her somewhere on my social media every St. Patrick’s Day–in fact, I’ve probably written this post before.  Because look at her. Just look at my grandmom, the west Philly girl sitting at a picnic table somewhere on the west coast of Ireland in 2004, threatening to give me a knuckle sandwich if I took her photo. I survived that moment–and somehow got away with a picture. Luck o’ the Irish, indeed. Sometime back in my early twenties, when I was just out of college and working at a legal publisher in Philly, my poor insecure self met up with my friend for a beer at Maggie O’Neill’s in Drexel Hill. The place was empty that evening, and we sat at the bar. I couldn’t afford to be out, but my friend and I were commiserating/celebrating/commemorating something, so I ordered a pint of Guinness, and was taken aback when the Irish bartender–older than I was, bigger&#8211…

Luck of the Irish, My You-Know-What

Yesterday, Cian said, “I have to go baf-room,” and before I had a chance to get over my shock (pride!), he came back out with a look of sheer guilt on his face. “Mom. Can you clean my poop?” His pants were still on. So, clean up we did. Major, major clean up. I should skip over the part where he struggled with me as I took off his pants, which made little chunks of poo rain around us onto the carpet like chocolate-covered balls of stink-infested hail, so I won’t share that. But I will tell you that as I got him dressed again, he looked at the floor in horror and pointed. “Mom! Dere’s more poop!” “No, there’s not, Cian,” I told him, and continued to tug at his pants. “No. MOM. Right dere. Dere’s POOP.” And lo and behold, he’d discovered a little chunk that had gotten smooshed in between my pant leg and the carpet. So, yay. Good day. Today, I overslept by, oh, 45 minutes, and had to rush the girls through…