"I don't like St. Patrick's Day," Alexis said. We were walking through the Gap Outlet in search of some new jeans for she who suddenly decided to not fit into any of her clothes.
"Why not?" I asked as I held up a green t-shirt. "You get to wear fun green clothes like this for St. Patrick's Day."
"I don't want to wear green," she replied. "I don't like green."
"But you have to wear green on St. Patrick's Day," I warned the oblivious short person.
"Why?" she asked.
I spent the next several minutes explaining the whole pinch thing. As Alexis listened, her face scrunched up in disapproval. She processed my words for a moment, and then began to cry. "I don't like St. Patrick's Day," she wailed.
Every day since that fateful moment, Alexis has sprung out of bed with a worried look on her face. "Is it St. Patrick's Day today?" she asked each time. When I finally replied in the affirmative this morning, absolute panic washed over her face. "Where's my green shirt?" she wailed as she flew down the hall to her closet.
Never before has the child managed to get dressed so quickly. Usually getting her to put on her clothes in the morning is a Herculean effort, requiring reminder after reminder and nudge after nudge. In a matter of moments, she proudly came strutting back into the bathroom where I stood blow-drying my hair.
"Look! I'm ready for St. Patrick's Day!" she declared with a proud grin on her face. As I complimented her Hungry Hungry Caterpillar shirt, she paused, a serious expression falling over her eyes. "Momma," she said, "You're not wearing green."
"You're right," I replied. "I'm not."
In a flash, a mischievous grin overtook her face as she reached out and stabbed me with her pointy, chubby little fingers. I suppose it may have been a pinch, but it seemed a lot more like getting poked with a spork. Also? IT HURT.
Remind me to wear green next year for St. Patrick's Day. It's for my own safety.
