So how are you planning to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day this year? Gonna try to squeeze into a pub? Go to a house party? Or maybe just hang out at home and sip a Guinness?
The decision is an easy one for us. My family’s had a standing invitation every year to the St. Patrick’s Day party hosted by our friends the Hollerans. Mary and Jim have been hosting this shindig for more than 30 years. Every year the mix of party-goers changes a bit, as new friends and neighbors are met, old friends move out of town, toddlers grow into adulthood, and new babies are born. But through it all, we can count on one thing: the story of the birth of my third child will be told, and it will have become more outlandish.
The real story goes like this:
On March 17, 1994, I was nine months pregnant and expecting my third child on March 30. As was our custom, my two children (then ages 7 and 4) and I were at the Hollerans’ St. Patrick’s Day party. My husband Jack worked nights at the time and hadn’t arrived yet.
I’d been very careful throughout my pregnancy not to consume any alcohol, but thought it would be safe to have just one beer that evening, which I did. I drove myself and the kids home relatively early.
Somewhat later that evening I started feeling rather “weird,” so I called Jack (who by this time had gotten to the party) and warned him not to be too late. Sure enough, later that night I went into labor and my youngest daughter Erin was born the next morning.
Naturally, a connection was immediately made between the one beer I had and the fact I went into labor almost two weeks early. That was the simple seed from which the legend has grown.
Every year the story gets a bit more … entertaining. These days when the story is told, there’s no telling what new facts we might discover. In previous years, for example, we’ve learned that Jack ignored my phone call and refused to go home. And that Mary, the party’s hostess, was the one to say the fateful words, “Oh, one beer won’t make a difference” and now regrets it.
Depending on who’s telling the story, I enjoyed 30 jello shots … or downed two pitchers of margaritas … or did a keg stand with the pope. Kinda wondering where the story will take us this year.
I hope your St. Patrick’s Day evening is not quite so exciting.
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Here’s a fun memory I came across recently, taken at Lynn Pilaroscia’s annual “Stand Around and Play Some Tunes,” which used to be held at the White House in Webster Park every June. Erin was just over two years old here and was clearly already in training. I guess when your birth is famously credited to a single St. Paddy’s Day beer, mastering the keg pump isn’t just a hobby — it’s a birthright.”
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(posted 3/8/2026)
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