Leprechauns- less likely than a tooth fairy?

Last week my son’s class had an activity which consisted in building a leprechaun trap.  Of course, the next day came and went with no catch whatsoever- only the telltale green sparkle that is apparently the hallmark of the leprechaun.  I can only imagine what a Dyson vacuum cleaner goes for in Tipperary.leprechaun

Of course, one of my sons’s peers (let’s call him “Sean”) felt the need to pull him aside and point out that this was all a sham put on by the teacher, and Sean was too damned smart to fall for such shenanigans.  Well, top o’ the mornin’ to ya!  Thanks for that bundle of confusion you sent my way, Sean!  I’d like to Blarney your stones….

The evening of the big reveal, my son told me about Sean’s pearls of wisdom and asked me teary-eyed if I believed in leprechauns.  I truthfully said that I believed that there were many mysterious and strange phenomena that I could not begin to understand, much less explain.  I was primarily thinking of the aurora borealis and Spanx.  Definitely Spanx.

I reminded him about the tooth fairy and Santa, and that just because the poor leprechaun was not well-heeled enough to leave a token, he should not be thought less of.  This seemed to have comforted him tremendously and we had our usual talk whenever confronted with doubt.  I explained yet again that “not believing” was not a sign of intelligence or maturity.  It was just plain stubbornness- and more importantly, it was sad for whatever was being rejected by the jaded unbeliever.  Poor little leprechaun and his humble green sparkle!  This tugged at his empathy strings and within minutes my little boy was smiling peacefully.

A child’s imagination is stoked and his heart is filled with joy when leprechaun traps are built.  And potential engineering careers are encouraged.  And all is well with the world.

Oh, but Sean is banned from all future play dates.  He can pogue mahone any time.  Éirinn go Brách!

Which Came First…?

Remember to always be alert and never let down your guard.  This morning our sweet son asked for a boiled egg for breakfast.   Seemed innocent enough!  Since he wantedegg to help with the cooking, he got the egg out of the refrigerator and jokingly said that if he dropped it, it would be “chicken murder.”

After we all had a good laugh- or not (the kid is seriously morbid)- I could see the little wheels turning in his head.  He was up to one of the most treacherous of juvenile activities: thinking.  Nothing more dangerous than a little information with no great smarts to back it up!

“Wait, is there a chick in the egg, Mommy?”

“No, son, of course not.  You have seen plenty of cracked eggs and you know that there is nothing there but yolk and egg white.”  I knew where this was going….

“So, why isn’t there a chick in the eggshell?”  Like I am about to explain fertilization to the kid.  You introduce sex into the infantile world and childhood is over.  I know.  We have already discussed this, but I feel the need to reiterate.  No more tooth fairy.  No more Easter Bunny.  No more Santa.  Would Santa do that to Mrs. Claus?  I don’t think so!

“Well, son, there are two kinds of eggs.  Some eggs become chicks and the others  become breakfast.  Two kinds, see?”

“Oh!  I get it!  How do the eggs know which kind they are, Mommy?”

“How do you know what you are, kid?”

“Hmm.  OK, but how do the eggs know?”  Push-back.  Expect it.  Go monotone and glassy eyed.

“Really, son, I am no expert in the chicken industry and my advice is not to look into it too much.  You’ll never eat fowl again.  That’s a homonym to remember.”

“Sounds boring.  Hey, I’m hungry.  Can we make the egg now?”  There we go.  Start sounding like a teacher and anyone will tune you out.  I know.  Because I am a teacher.

Kids don’t want the real answers to these sorts of questions.  No one does!  Plus, chicken sex- what’s that about?  Gives a whole new meaning to “gamecock.”  Not a visual I need any time soon.

Children are exploring the world at large and it is our responsibility to keep them safe.  It’s the same logic as why you would never let your kid cross a street alone just because he wants to go to the playground around the block.  You certainly don’t want them wandering around out there considering the insemination of chickens in tacky, poorly lit hen houses with some pimp farmer barking out orders to an oversexed rooster nicknamed “Max the Roto Rooter. ”  No, you really don’t.