So last night, at 11:00, I crept upstairs to dump coins and confetti in Caroline's shoes. I tiptoed into her room but was stopped short by a piece of heavily-worded paper propped up against the shoes. I grabbed a flashlight and read it:
Thank you so much for always making St. Patrick's Day so much fun for me. I am leaving you a piece of chocolate since you always leave me something. (Damnit, Caroline, no candy in your room!! I don't want mice or bugs!!) I know how busy you are, but I know that you're magic and can do anything, so I have one favor to ask.
Please, please, please will you paint my toenails green while I sleep? I'll leave my feet out from under the covers for you.
I have that unfortunate purple. I have electric blue. I have glitter and every shade of pink and red known to Elizabeth Arden. But nooooooo, I don't have green nailpolish. I don't even have yellow to mix with the blue. My husband is out of town. I can't run to the store, which, pathetically, I would have done if it was an option. Can I use marker? Eyeliner? White-out mixed with food coloring?
Ahhhh, who's the sucker now?
What did I do? Go to sleep, like a normal, tired mother who thinks it's ridiculous that her almost-nine-year-old still believes in leprechauns? No. I frantically ran downstairs, found a leprechaun-y font on the computer, printed out individual letters, glued them on pieces of green paper and left a big, messy word riddle for her to figure out. At midnight I was blowing on the glue to dry it until I realized I was hyperventilating and probably slipping into some sort of an inhaled-glue coma.
She was thrilled and completely confident in the existence of magic. I was pooped. Being a leprechaun is simply exhausting.