I should probably start off by apologizing for today’s title to my two most beloved high school English teachers: Mrs. Langemoe and Mrs. Gallagher.  Although upon second thought, I think both those sweet, sassy women would get a pretty good chuckle out of my word choice. Today’s hijinks vexed my very last nerve, and I am not kidding in the slightest.  Before I get into the sticky (and I do mean sticky) details, I should give a little background.

For years now, we have had a system for cleaning our house. One day every couple weeks, we clean our house top to bottom. Originally we assigned jobs for each person to complete.  The jobs were getting done, but closer inspection revealed, not really well.  After a LONG family chat, we decided to create a master list of all jobs to get our house spic-n-span, allowing each person to pick the jobs they most desired to do.  This system worked much better, and after one task is crossed off the list, we keep picking jobs until the entire list is completed.

I don’t know if it is just the way my mind works, but I like things neat and orderly. My desire for a clean house is so strong that cleaning day is not thwarted by extra guests or unexpected playmates knocking at the door. One sweet boy seemed to have the uncanny luck to always have a sleepover with Reed on days that coincided with cleaning.  He never once balked and always stepped right up to help out.  My personal favorite was the time two brothers showed up to play with our kids.  My answer stating my kids couldn’t play until the house was clean was met with a question asking if they could help speed up the process. I simply pointed to the list, and watched one brother pick up supplies to scrub toilets while the other grabbed the vacuum.  Not bragging, but I am not sure Mary Poppins can’t top that story!

When the house is done, we always treat ourselves.  Hot fudge cake in the crockpot is a perennial favorite, as is a trip to the ice cream shop.  And yes, if you cleaned, whether I gave birth to you or not, you have earned the right to celebrate a job well done. Also, before anyone turns me in for child labor concerns, the entire process to dust, scrub, and polish our modest home takes less than two hours start to finish . . . or about as long as it takes for that cake to bake. But, I digress. . .

This whole long tangent is to explain my discovery this morning dealing with all things Irish and engineering.  Over the weekend, Sal, the scientist extraordinaire, got busy perfecting her latest in the way of leprechaun traps.  Little did I know that said trap needed some type of goo to help snare entice the objects of her affection.  I went to bed, hoping and wishing that my little Irish girl would finally get her wish of meeting a real live leprechaun, but awoke to something much less desirable than order and decorum.

All of my dining room chairs were strewn about, the piano rolls which had been conveniently placed to form stairs to one of the traps fun times were kicked to kingdom come, Sal’s bedroom was covered in toilet paper, and finally, the “Fairy Party and Leprechaun Lounge” was tipped over leaking syrup all over our floor.  Happy momma went to panicked momma in about 2 seconds flat.  Apparently our leprechaun friends were lured to the lounge by the video on the pink tv (ipod) in which a fairy friend explained how much fun it was in there. Little did I know how much faeries and leprechauns are fans of maple syrup! Seriously, if that is how our tiny friends like to party, who am I to judge?

I am nothing if not a fan of imaginations; so, when I saw my girl’s intense examination of all her designs, I couldn’t be mad. I just simply couldn’t do it.  Syrup cleans up (Thank you God above)! According to the miniscule note from our little Irish friends, we understand one of them did indeed get stuck and is now worried that every dry leaf and blade of grass from here to Ireland will be stuck to him.  For that I am sincerely sorry, because wanting things clean is something I understand.

It took quite a while for my gang to uncover the whereabouts of the hidden treasure box which this year held gold wrapped candies and new Irish t-shirts.  After the syrup incident, I am surprised our leprechaun friends didn’t wage war on my little (and big) engineers. Thankfully, they are much too noble for such pettiness!

As I was heading out the door, Sal wanted to share what she had uncovered about leprechaun traps in her ten years of experience.  1) any box used has been knocked over pretty easily. 2) any trap which involves falling into hasn’t been deep enough yet. Wheels of genius spinning, she was already devising a plan for next year. As a science teacher, I couldn’t have been more proud of her observations and thinking.

So to Seamus (again, terribly sorry about your coat), Finnegan, and O’Malley:  Thank you so much for keeping her creative ideas flowing, even if, at times, it feels like I am going to lose my mind.  But most of all, thanks for keeping her reaching for the pot of gold stars.