This morning, the children woke up happily at 7 am and enjoyed a healthy breakfast of whole grain wheat toast, scrambled eggs and orange juice, then proceeded to the car in an orderly fashion to make sure that the Diva didn’t miss the school bus.

BWAAHAHAHA! That has never happened. What actually happened is that the Tyrant dug through a basket of neatly folded laundry, upsetting it entirely, to find her hot pink rhinestone Girls Rule shirt and blue polka dotted tights, an ensemble which does not resemble her school uniform. She ate four bites of waffle and a bag of Cheetos for breakfast.

I dressed the Pterodactyl myself while he acted like a stiffening cadaver. He ate a bowl of syrup sprinkled with some waffle.

The Diva ate a bowl of corn. She dressed herself.

All of that is normal, and no cause for alarm. What is upsetting, however, is the Case of the Missing Sugar.

Yesterday morning, I was searching for the sugar because the younger children will eat strawberries for breakfast if they can dip the berries in a little bowl of sugar. (Do not under any circumstances write to tell me how terrible this is for their teeth.)

I buy those big gallon jugs of turbinado cane sugar. (Do not under any circumstances write to tell me I don’t need that much sugar in my house.) It should have been easy to find in my undersized pantry. But it had vanished. I looked on every shelf, in every cabinet, and in the refrigerator. The jug of sugar was gone. No strawberries for breakfast.

Then yesterday afternoon as I was cooking dinner I opened the pantry to get some chicken broth and there was the sugar. In the middle of the middle shelf. Like, right in front of me. Further proof, I deduced, that parenthood is gradually sapping me of all cognitive awareness.

So this morning, I prepared to serve strawberries for breakfast. But guess what? The sugar was missing. I have torn the pantry apart. I even removed every item from the middle of the middle shelf to make sure I wasn’t subconsciously not seeing it. It’s gone. And it’s gone because a leprechaun took it.

Do you know what I remember about St. Patrick’s Day from my childhood? Nothing. Well, I remember trying to wear something green, and when I reached the hormonal teen years, sporting a “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” pin. And green beer.

But all of this leprechaun business? What is up with this?

Last year the Diva came home from school crying on St. Patrick’s Day because no leprechauns had visited her home the previous night. One of her classmates said a leprechaun had visited her house, turned over all the furniture and left some green presents.

Naturally, this classmate is a child of a Mother of the Year, and so I rolled my eyes. “There are no leprechauns,” I told the Diva. It might have been less painful if I had removed her thumbnails.

“What do you mean??!!” she cried.

I chickened out and backtracked. “What I mean, honey,” I began. Fake cough. Throat clearing. Sudden compulsion to empty the dishwasher.

“What I mean, honey, is that the leprechauns know better than to come mess up Mommy’s house after I’ve tried so hard to straighten it up.” Which is like three different lies all wrapped into one gentle comforting sentence.

“But they came to school, Mom! And turned some of the desks upside down!”

“Well, that’s very adorable. Was it fun? Are you hungry?” Let me fix you some fabulous unhealthy snack, anything to get your mind off asking my why I didn’t purposely ransack my own house in order to make you think little green pygmy men were playing jokes on us.

That was last year. This year, the school leprechaun talk started even earlier. This entire week, in fact, the week before St. Patrick’s Day, has been dedicated to building leprechaun traps baited with gold coins and rainbows. Which makes me think, oh, the leprechauns are gay?

I’m sure there has been lots of talk of leprechaun mischief. Which brings me back to the sugar. Now that the sugar has gone missing for two days running, I’m confident that the teachers have been encouraging the children to fuck with me. My first clue is that the Tyrant said to me this morning, “Mama, you’re trying to make me crazy!” which she obviously picked up from her teacher, who must have said to her, “Try to make your Mama crazy!”

So, nice work, teachers. You win. I’m crazy. Or at least, I’m nearly apoplectic with frustration after searching every room in the house for the sugar. There is a leprechaun living in my house who is soon going to have ants in his or her room because he or she has stashed away a gallon jug of sugar. If I figure out who it is, look out. I can steal things, too, you know.