Irish enough

We were out the door by 9:30 a.m. Not quite as early as mom and dad used to rock out on St. Pat's but not half bad either. It was a beautiful morning...

Hair?

Mom made Dad take a memory shot... 

 7 months and change old.

 5 days old.

Another memory shot, this time at The Bar...

7 months and change old.

2 weeks old.

Enough with the memory shots.

Time to eat.

And charm the table neighbors - "He's so cute." 

"This he's a she."

Home to play with Dad. 

And melt mom's heart. 

 It was quite the day.

 I was out like a leprechaun by 6:15 p.m.

(Mom's take? I was pleasantly surprised at the not-Marge-traditional-tipsy-fun I had with my family on St. Patrick's Day. I didn't stumble anywhere and tasted every bite of the soda bread Will made. The weather couldn't have been better. It made me happy to be alive. And a titch Irish. And a mom. One more time... Slainte!)

Go Green

Go White.

Tonight. 9:20 p.m.

(Thanks for the shirt, Maeve and Walter! Wish we could be together this weekend.)

Old dog. Old tricks.

Yesterday morning we received the Owen photos. Yesterday evening we received this email:

Hi, I forgot it was his birthday till our Vet sent him a card. This morning he barfed two socks up. One belonged to Donna and the other didn't look familiar. Might have been my sons. Will have to do a sock inventory. Hard to believe as he doesn't really mess with them much anymore. Too much temptation for him I guess. Hopefully we learned our lesson too.
Take care,

Steve & Donna and the children.

These people are my Oprah. Making lives better one devilish lab at a time...

Happy Birthday, Owen

Owen turns four today. Though I doubt his new home is coo coo bananas enough to make him a meat cake, I don't doubt he's getting a lot of extra pats. They sent along these shots this morning...

Pedicure day...

(Of course Owen is all up in the biz...)

Lawn time.

And on guard.

Looks pretty happy, right? Hazaa!

A day with Dad

I love my dad.

 Especially when The Tournament is on.

Raise your glass

On Monday afternoon, the world lost a fine Irishman. At ninety, William O'Connell (Bill Sr. to me), decided he'd had enough of this world and left to join his three fine ladies in the sky. Here's to betting they had a snug reserved and a Bushmill's waiting.

May you have warm words on a cold evening, a full moon on a dark night, and the road downhill all the way to your door.