Bless ye, St. Patrick

I feel like I should be using a teeny-tiny typeface here, to signify that I am whispering. If I speak too loudly, I might jinx things. I fear disrupting whatever cosmic alignment has brought about this extraordinary development: three entire days without a major conflict with Hugh. I wish I could say it's all due to my extreme self-control, amazing sensitivity, and mastery of behavioral therapy. But, it's not. I didn't do it. St. Patrick did.

Every year Baton Rouge has a big St. Patrick's Day parade that rolls right in front of our house. Now, you have to understand that in south Louisiana, you don't just watch a parade. It's not, in fact, about watching at all. It's about The Party. Louisianians aren't really very good at things like, umm, government. Or education. Or economic development. Or urban planning. Or race relations. But partying. That we have down to an art form. By the time the St. Pat's parade rolls at 10 am on the Saturday nearest the actual holiday, the crawfish are boiling, the chicken frying, the burgers grilling, and the beer flowing. In vast quantities.

But this year, I declared that we wouldn't be joining the party. At least not in the sense of having our usual party. Kitchen renovations remain stalled: still no floor, no sink. So no party, no way.

Hugh went nuts. Hugh loves St. Patrick's Day. Hugh loves parades. Hugh especially loves the St. Pat's parade.

So, we compromised. I agreed he could have a party. Which meant he would have to do it. And he did. All on his own, with nary a prod or reminder or nag. He planned the menu, did the shopping, mowed the lawn, tidied his room, trimmed the bushes around the deck, cleaned the lawn furniture, readied the coolers. By 7 am on parade day when he brought me my cafe' au lait in bed (!!!!), he had already baked brownies, iced the drinks, and readied the veggie tray. And he was happy. So happy. Pleasant. Polite. Talkative. Fun to be around.

Hugh is 15. He is not happy. He is not pleasant or polite or talkative or fun to be around. Not with me.

But he was. And (sshh, don't say it too loudly), still is.

All of which reminds me how crucial it is to remember the Truth that I first realized when Hugh was two years old: this child hates being a kid. He's not really very good at it. But maybe, just maybe, he'll be really good at being an adult. Which would be great. At least one of us should be.