This year, I spent St. Patrick’s Day with friends, drinking copious amounts of wine. It got me to thinking about St. Paddy’s Days Past. St. Patrick’s Day of 2009 was particularly memorable.

My then 9-year-old son said to me, “I’m full Irish, right?”

I said, “No, you’re Irish, Scottish, some English and German.”

“How do you become Irish?”

“Well, if your mom was Irish or your dad, or your grandma or grandpa, then you are too.”

“You know what I did today?  We learned about Irish poetry and I wrote an Irish poem all by myself!  Do you want to hear it?”

There was an old dog in Peru

Who wanted to go to school

One day in the night

He had a terrible fright

And thought he was a great big fool

“Ah, that is a limerick.  But there are other kinds of Irish poetry.  And the Irish had some wonderful myths and legends.”

“I want to read some!” he exclaimed.

“Well, they are pretty long.  I’m not sure you are ready for them.”

“Whaaat?! I am a book lover.  I am ready!  I’ll marry a lovely bookworm!”

I may have never been so proud in my life.  Like mother, like son.