Well, St. Patrick’s Day is always a special day in my family.  I tell people that I’m French born, but Irish raised, and that’s because 34 years ago today, I met my Dad, an Irish Catholic raised in The Bronx.

I was four years old, and my Mom and I had been invited to the home of a family friend to celebrate the holiday.  You know how some memories get etched in your brain permanently, and when looking back with an adult perspective you understand why?  Well, I remember with ultimate clarity, going to sit on my Mom’s lap.  I remember being hot and sweaty, and wanting a drink.  I remember finding her amongst the adults, sitting on the couch.   I backed up to her legs and went to push myself up, as children do, using what I thought was her leg.  However, the leg I used did not belong to Mom, as it turned out.  It belonged to this six and a half foot tall stranger sitting next to her.  I was surprised at how tall he was, and I remember looking at him startled once I realized that giant leg wasn’t Mom’s.  I remember him smiling at me and saying, “How are you?”  I was shy and embarrassed and turned away.  Little did I know what was to come of that meeting.

That stranger entered my life as my stepfather six months later, and entered my heart shortly after that.  I don’t know exactly when he became “Dad” but my life is what it is because he chose to marry “us.” 

Thanks for the flowers Dad!  I love you!