Moonbeam and Sunbeam arrived, and then Cute Husband. I cooked up the hash and fried up the eggs and we ate it with toasted soda bread while the girls watched a leprechaun movie I’ve never heard of with Sean Connery.

Cute Husband took the kids upstairs to bed, and the Big Girls and I retired to the kitchen to begin our work.

We started by blowing up balloons. Well, they blew up balloons while I offered helpful instructions.

“Full balloons, girls, don’t be wimpy.” Moonbeam has asthma, but she puffed away. I am such a jerk sometimes.

We spread out all the gold trinkets on the floor — buttons, crystals, pearls, beads, notions, gold thread to string it all on. Gold body glitter, lip gloss, nail polish. Piles of gold candy. We ate some candy and tried on the bracelets.

And then … the sound of a child. On the stairs.

 ”Aaaaaaahhh!!!” Sunbeam shouted, a regular Han Solo going after a corridor full of storm troopers. She bounded up the stairs two at a time toward the unsuspecting child.

Moonbeam covered her flank and I blocked the view to the kitchen. By turning sideways.

“AAAAAAAAHHH!!!!” Sunbeam continued. ” —AHHEyye I… don’t know what you think you’re doing …” A long out-of-breath pause. “If you come down the stairs,” she gasped, “… um. The leprechauns. You could startle them. And they could … disappear. Okay, honey? Now, let’s go back to your room.”

“Wow. I’d want Sunbeam with me if we ever had a bomb scare or anything,” I said.

She was back a few minutes later and we started with the ribbon. It took us about 45 minutes to string it all — six colors, three spools of each, through the kitchen, living room, family room and back.

“This is for all the times you didn’t get your coat on the first freaking time I asked,” Moonbeam said, running green ribbon around and around a lamp.

“Oh, and this for all the times you wouldn’t go to bed when I was supposed to be doing homework,” Sunbeam said, passing a wad of ribbon under an easy chair and up into the ceiling fan.

“This is just ’cause I love to torture you,” I said, and then realized I really couldn’t do anything too clever in my current condition and just ran it through the back of chair. Lots of times.

At some point I was tragically caught in the middle of it all. Waist-high in a laser-beam obstacle course of satiny rainbow colors. Moonbeam and Sunbeam behaved with their usual respect for my dignity and well-being.

“Lemme get the camera,” Moonbeam said.

“Good idea,” Sunbeam said.

I got out of it by pulling a Catherine Zeta-Jones, dropping to my knees and sliding under it.

Zeta-Jones, I ain’t.

“Anyone caught photographing my plumber’s crack is out of a job,” I said.

After we were done, we collected the empty ribbon spools and hid the other evidence of our work. (“Because no child should ever have to give up her faith in leprechauns”) And then for good measure we flung gold-wrapped Rolos on the floor. (Why no mylar? Because, my friends, every time I bend over it requires about 20 minutes before my blood pressure returns to normal. Chocolates, I can count on the kids to pick up.)

The girls woke us up at 7 a.m., howling and shrieking.

“They came! The leprechauns came!”

Ah, yes. The morning twilight and we, like all the other families up and down our block, are waking up to the magic of St. Patrick’s Day morning.

Okay, maybe ours isn’t like everybody else’s.

“MAGIC BALLOONS OMAGAWSH MARLEY!”

Magic balloons?

“Sure they are,” I said.

“I KNOW WHERE THE POT OF GOLD IS!”

“Sure you do,” I nodded.

“It’s in the dishwasher,” she said, reaching for the handle. Before I had time to shout “AHHHHH!” Cute Husband appeared out of nowhere with a hip-check to the door.

“You don’t want to do that,” he said. “If you’re right and it’s in there and you didn’t follow the rainbow to get to it, it will poof and disappear.”

“Are you sure?”

“Duh. Everbody knows that’s how it works.”

Moonbeam and Sunbeam arrived minutes later with Starbucks and we all had a good cackle as it took the girls an hour to get to the end of the rainbow. Finally the time came to open the dishwasher and they did and it was a regular Festivus Miracle.

Oh the surprises of motherhood — how good a baby smells, how utterly I have changed, how hard it is every single day, and how worth it.

And how St. Patrick’s Day has become a highlight of the year for no good reason at all.

So Happy St. Patrick’s Day, my friends.

Or as we say here, “Felicitious Festivus St. Patrickus.” — May the Leprechauns bring you much joy.

It started with this cute idea I had for surviving the stretch from January to April — or, as I like to call it, the great boil on the rear-end of the lunar calendar.

I survived by celebrating. Over-celebrating. Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, April Fools and Easter took on epic proportions. I flung mylar hearts, leprechauns, bunnies. I found crepe paper streamers in pink and red and green and yellow. I baked and prepped and sauteed and roasted whatever food I could justify and afford.

And then one year I got a great idea. How much fun would it be to make a rainbow for the girls to follow, and then put a pot of gold at the end?

I bought ribbons in rainbow colors, ran them through the furniture in a wild web, filled a plastic kettle with gold chocolates, gold beads and baubles and ribbons and glitter. (And mylar straw.) I hid it under the couch, at the end of the purple ribbon.

Clever, right? Super Mom of the year, no?

Okay, then last year I ended up with Marley the night before St. Patrick’s. I don’t remember how it happened, but it was easy, we just chucked her in, they had a blast and split the booty evenly.

And then something interesting happened.

First, Greta saw the kettle on a playdate that afternoon. And Mare, being the big heart she is, gave it to her. Greta was bummed that there was no rainbow at her house.

Then Marley’s big brother Henry saw the gold booty Marley brought home and was insensed — why does all the cool stuff happen to Marley??

Things got even more interesting around Halloween, when Marley asked her Dad whether she could stay at our house for St. Patrick’s Day again.

She asked again around the New Year and again at Margo’s birthday party last month.

“I’m not sure, Marley,” her Dad said. I shrugged in a “fine with me” motion and Marley pouted, “Why don’t the leprechauns come to our house?”

“We’re not Irish,” he said.

“That’s okay!”

“We’re Jewish,” he went on.

“That’s okay!” she replied.

“We’re Scottish/Austrian,” I added helpfully.

I ring Tania’s house and get the sitter.

“I am just wondering whether we’re expecting Marley tonight,” I said.

“Oh, I sure hope so,” she answers. “She told me she’s not staying here, she’s going where the leprechauns are.”

“Oh, fabulous.”

“This is apparently the lame house on St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Ah,” I say.

“Hey, El, can I swing by and get the pot of gold from you today?” Greta has had it for a year.

Almost exactly.

“Sure, but um, there’s no more mylar straw in it.”

“Oh? — It didn’t last too long, huh?”

“No. I threw it out the first week. You have a sickness and I am not enabling you.”

“Harsh, my friend, harsh. But honestly, do you know how long I can go before I hit bottom?”

“I have some idea.”

“Yeah, but this is mylar. It flings!!”

I know what I have to do. Have known it since last year. It can’t be avoided.

“Would Greta like to spend the night, too?” I ask. (What am I going to do, grab the pot of gold and leave her there?)

“Oh, wow …” El says.

Sure. Four little girls. Me, 13 months pregnant. In a house that comfortably sleeps four. Why not?

It is, after all, St. Patrick’s-freaking-Day.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tania asks.

“Yeah, totally, it’s great,” I say bravely.

“What can I bring?”

“Anything gold,” I say. “Buttons, glitter pens, stickers. Whatever. We don’t hold back on St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Okay. Henry’s losing his mind that Marley gets to do this again this year.”

“Oh. Would. Um. Would he like to come. Too? And, of course, Eleanor. You know. All of your children.” (Honestly, did you think about how hard they would be to accomodate before you had all those freaking kids??)

Long pause.

“No, that would be wrong.”

“Okay.”

“I think I just need to get Henry some gold stuff.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey, how do we explain the return of the kettle?” Ellie asks. “Obviously there is some parental involvement if the kettle comes back.”

“Maybe it’s like a stocking? — I don’t know. I really don’t know how leprechauns work.”

“And, now, Mare does believe it’s leprechauns? Not you?”

“With her whole little heart and soul. Marley too. Oh my God, El, what have I done?”

“That an important first step, Liz. Good for you.”

“Okay, Mare, you sweep the floor and Renny can use the dust pan. We have to get this place cleaned up. I have a lot of people to cook for tonight.”

“Me, Marley, Ren, Greta, Eden (she counts, ’cause she eats so much) and Daddy!”

“Keep going,” I say.

“Um … Sunbeam?”

“AND Moonbeam.”

“REALLY?!?!?!”

“Yes. I promised them hash in exchange for playing leprechauns.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, hand me that dustpan, would you love?”

It is Boston food. Boston Irish food. (Don’t believe me? Ask an Irishman if he eats corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day.)

Corned beef and cabbage is actually the basis of a classic New England Boiled Dinner, and around here an entertaining diversity of people eat it on St. Patrick’s Day. I have Asian, Greek and Italian friends making boiled dinner this weekend. Why? Tradition. — And, because there’s an awful lot of it piled up at the market, cheap.

In the past I’ve made my own concoction of spices and brine for the corned beef and gotten really into the question of grey versus red cuts. This year, I am very pregnant, more than a little grumpy, and was easily sold on the samples Trader Joe’s offered of their pre-brined stuff.

I put two of the Trader Joe’s corned beefs (beeves?) into a large pot with one bottle of a nice Irish lager and enough hot water to cover. (Friends of Bill, use beef broth.) Then, because I could not help myself, I added two cloves minced garlic and about a tablespoon minced onion. I’m pretty sure that’s not Irish, quite positive it’s not traditional Boston, but we are meant to evolve.

It’s boiling nicely on the stove.

When it’s been going about three hours, I’ll add these:

Traditional boiled dinner involves vegetables cooked into a pasty oblivion. Like I said, we’re meant to evolve: I prefer my vegetables crisp. I’ll add the potatoes first, and the carrots at the very end and I will watch carefully to make sure they don’t overcook.

I made a dish of horseradish cream — heavy cream with some good dollops of horseradish, whipped. Perfect on the beef. And butter and cheddar to go with the Irish soda bread and apples for dessert.

But the best part comes tomorrow, when I make the hash.

Talk about evolving.