Mirish is a thing.
Mirish is A Thing.
The quick history lesson is that many Irish fought for the Mexican army during the Mexican-American War in the mid 1840’s. The result is is blending of cultures that doesn’t get a lot of air time in history classes. The Husband is the son of a Mexican-born father and a Canadian-born mother of Irish decent. That makes him Mirish, according to the (also Mirish) cousins who’ve married into the family. I’m willing to bet, however, that he’s the only one who went out and bought an authentic kilt at a Renaissance fair a few years back (and has actually worn it).
Back when we lived in the desert, The Husband and I packed up the kid and drove the two hours to the closest Ren Fest for our fix. Before moving from Michigan, you see, we were festival regulars with the whole costumes pieced together because it was our thing. We both loved it. We couldn’t go as often in Tucson with two hours being a slight headache, but we dived in with our usual geek-couple gusto and left with a kilt for him…and one for little Eliana. Of course, I made him put it on (he added his Ren Fest boots because they kick-ass) because there was most definitely going to be a blog post. I just needed a picture first.
That’s when I caught the first moment. Eliana stood next to her Daddy and just as she looked up with those adoring eyes of hers, I clicked. I melted.
Fast forward to today’s St. Patrick’s Day. Eliana and I went holiday-themed-craft-crazy and watched too many Irish step dancing videos on YouTube. It was a blast. But nothing tops the moment her daddy walked in the door after his work day.
“DADDYYOUREHOME!? she screamed.NOWGETYOURKILTANDWHERESMINESOWECANGETREADYFORSAINTPATRICKSDAY”
The Husband stopped dead in his tracks and glared at me because I’m the one with the blog. I just shrugged. I had nothing to do with this, I told him. You’re the one who reminded her I’ve got a kilt, he said back. That was last week,” I said, smiling.
Not my fault the child has the memory of an elephant. I got the iPhone ready for a few pictures because I couldn’t have planned it better myself (and I wasn’t about to miss photo and internet documentation). Whether or not I looked guilty was totally beside the point.
After changing into the kilt, The Husband walked into the living room in his socks, thinking he was off the hook with no more being asked of him. He got the idea when Eliana ran into our room and came back out with a pair of his black cowboy boots. He put them on as she beamed. Now, she told him, they had matching kilts and were both wearing fancy boots. She tried talking him into a pair of leggings he doesn’t own so they could super match, but he managed to convince her that he was totally okay with his socks poking out the top of the boots. No matter how badly either one of us accidentally fucks up this parenting thing, she can never claim her daddy didn’t love her enough.
The Husband is a smart man. Without having to tell him, he knew exactly what I wanted before I said anything. We chose a spot, they stood up against the wall, and I clicked away, knowing I was going to throw away 14 of the 15 shots I had just taken. Or maybe 20 of the 21. I still didn’t have the one I needed.
Without much direction from me, he assumed his usual stance and guided Eliana into place. Turn her head a bit…look up at me…put your hands on my waist…
She did as she was asked because the child has grown up with a smartphone camera in her face and complying just makes life easier. I held my breath until I saw it.
Not yet. Cute, but no. Almost…
Two years in between. And my heart melted all over again.