So you're not Irish? Neither was St. Pat

St. Patrick wasn't Irish.

And he didn't have a green beard.

Probably not even an orange one.

Yes, I've learned a lot as a mother.

Being half-Irish, I've always had an affinity for St. Patrick. Growing up, St. Patrick's Day was a magical holiday, where wee li'l leprechauns might be hiding behind any door waiting to shower us with fistfuls of gold. We'd search endlessly for the fabled four-leaf clover, and finish our day with traditional corned beef and cabbage.

The night before St. Patrick's Day, I'd notice who was not wearing green to bed. Then the next morning, I'd sneak from room to room waking everyone with a big pinch for not wearing green. Now, mind you, this wasn't a playful, "oh-your-cheeks-are-so-cute" kind of pinch. This was a squeeze-the-flesh-until-the-person-sees-little-leprauchans-dancing-'bout pinch. Then I'd smile sweetly and announce, "Happy St. Patrick's Day!"

As I got older, I began wearing very subtle green on March 17, so when my siblings pinched me, I'd get to slug them back. They would try to squeal on me, but, alas, tradition would prevail.

After all, that was the rules for St. Patrick's Day. If you dared not to wear green, you better plan on a day of flesh squeezing. And if you wrongly pinched someone wearing the color of the Emerald Isle -- even if it was fainter than a rainbow -- well, then, the rule was a punch for the pinch.

Yeah, not really a family tradition I've continued.

When I became a mom 10 years ago, this game seemed just a tad too violent for my sweet wee one.

So how was I to keep my cultural heritage alive without our annual shenanigans of pinching and whacking?

I decided to order a children's book about the true story of St. Patrick.

Seemed harmless enough, until beloved author Tomie de Paola popped my childhood beliefs with one sharp writing pen.

His children's book, "Patrick," declared that the source of all things Irish this time of year was actually, get this, English. When Patrick was 16, he was captured and sold as a slave to an Irishman. Six years later, he escaped back to his noble family in Britain, only to return, by choice, to teach the Irish about Jesus Christ.

In disbelief, I did some research and discovered this was not just a Brit's best attempt at blarney. It was true. The Patron Saint of Ireland wasn't Irish at all.

Not wanting to grieve the loss of this myth alone, I called my sister.

In typical Irish fashion, we held a private wake. With the phones to our ears, we danced a jig, sang "Oh Danny Boy" and laughed our sorrow away. OK, so some of that is malarkey.

It turns out, the hordes of non-Irish who claim to be from the land of leprechauns and luck on March 17 are in good company.

After all, if St. Patrick, who was English, can be hailed as the ultimate Irishman, then why can't they?

My son is just a quarter-Irish, but thinks even that is better than finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. OK, maybe not so much. But when he was 6, he proudly would tell people he was "part-leprechaun" -- instead of part-Irish -- and wondered if his ears would eventually turn pointy.


