Why Did My Mom Let the Leprechauns Take the Credit?

Every year on St. Patrick's Day, we'd come back from recess to find our classroom in beautiful chaos.

Not the same chaos every year. That was the thing. Some desks were flipped upside down. Some chairs were turned over. Books pulled out of cubbies, opened to random pages. Confetti everywhere — green and gold and white. Little gold chocolate coins scattered across the floor. No two years looked exactly the same, because she wasn't just making a mess. She was thinking it through.

"I just tried to think like a mischievous leprechaun," she told me decades later. "It's pretty easy."

I didn't know it was my mom until I was grown. For years I thought it was the custodian, then maybe a teacher. I sent her this entry and that's when she told me, "It was me!" She'd gotten the idea from a book about fun things to do for kids. She asked the teacher's permission every year — they always loved it. The kids were happy to clean up because they could keep whatever they picked up.

Nobody minded the confetti.

She loved doing it. That's the part that gets me now. It wasn't an obligation or a favor. She looked forward to it. She'd walk into that classroom and think: what would a leprechaun do to this desk? This chair? These books? She put real care into the mischief.

And she never took credit. That was the whole point.

There's a particular kind of love that asks nothing in return — not even acknowledgment. The things that make childhood feel enchanted aren't accidents. Someone chose to make them happen. And the wisest ones let the magic get all the credit.