Dear Laney,
Today, after helping me apply a healthy dose of sunscreen to your face (guess which side you were in charge of), you took off for the Bitterroot Scottish Irish Festival with your dad and grandparents.
Grandpops' family came to America from Ireland, so mathematically speaking, you are part Irish. You are probably more Irish than the guy who will one day be sitting next to you at a bar on St Patrick's Day wearing a shirt that reads, "Kiss Me, I'm Irish." Do NOT under any circumstances kiss that guy. This might not be the exact quote, but Granny Jack once told me that she doesn't like to go to church on Easter, because churchgoers on Easter are like drinkers on St Patrick's Day: amateurs who just make a mess of everything. So, like I was saying, you're part Irish and part Southern smart aleck.
I didn't get to go to the Festival, because I had a lot of work to do to make up for the days I missed last week. But here are two opinions I'd like to share:
1) You would have made an excellent ruler of the realm. Grandma CC had your picture taken in front of this castle backdrop, and I can just imagine you ordering your troops to bring you someone's head on a plate while you're waving those pastel streamers. They may take our lives, but they will never take...our freedom!! etc etc.
2) I have not confirmed with your father that the Festival offered pints of Guinness in sippy cups, but it would explain why you're hugging strangers and how you became an instant Irish dancing expert.
I love you, man.
And here is something I would not like to share: the qualities of toddler poop two hours after said toddler has tried haggis. I'm no historian, but I'd bet money that it's this gastrointestinal phenomenon that has kept Scotland from becoming a world power.
Thanks for the souvenir!
Love,
Mom
The important thing to remember about haggis poop is that it looks just like it did before you ate it, but it smells better.
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