Bantha Poodoo!

As Lucas enters his third year on this planet, it occurs to me that the epochal First Time Moments are upon me: first time swimming, first time going poop by himself (this is still on the horizon; although frustrating, it does provide moments, as evidenced earlier today when Beth and I got a hint of That Smell. "Lucas", I asked. "Did you poop in your diaper?" "Um, no", he said, deadly serious, "I took a dump."), first PeeWee Basketball game (next weekend), first time riding a bike, and, towering above all the rest, first time the kid watches Star Wars with his old man.

The venerable classic turns 30 this summer (yeah, we are all racing towards the grave, men, do not pass Go, do not collect $200), and until very recently I hadn't given much thought to when it would be appropriate to watch it with the kid. But lately his tastes have skewed towards robots, spaceships, and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (the ads for the forthcoming movie transfix him; I fear for the lad's sanity when he first lays eyes on the trailer for Michael Bay's Transformers flick - I'll admit to a bit of geeking over it myself). And others in my demographic have already shared the brilliance with their sons. I've got all six movies on DVD, and was starting to formulate plans for the boy's First Star Wars Viewing. Beth's going out of town next week, a perfect opportunity. Just me, Lucas, and the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. Adventure! Excitement!

Well, we all know what happens to those who crave those things. I was traveling this past week, spending time in the port of Mystic, Connecticut - you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villiany - and I spoke with Beth shortly after arriving. She was spending the day at her parents. We talked a bit about the flight, the town, etc. "So how's Lucas?", I asked. "You should see him", Beth replied. "My parents put on Star Wars and he's running around the house yelling 'Skywalker! Skywalker!' and pretending to blow things up."

I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. "What." Not a question, rather a statement. "The kid watched Star Wars...without me?"

Silence on the other end of the line. This was much worse than the time that she refused to let me go to Toshi Station to pick up those power converters. "Well", Beth said, "actually...it was on cable, and he only watched a bit of it. Plus it wasn't the first one." I interrupted: "Episode IV, you mean." "No", she said, "it was the one with the Ewoks. You don't like that one anyway. So you haven't lost anything - you can still watch the first ("Fourth", I thought to myself) one with him." There was a slight tone in her voice; we'd never discussed the importance of the whole Star Wars thing as it related to the kid, but she married me, she knows the geek factor that came with the rest, and she respects that, even if she doesn't fully understand it. Clearly she found my lack of faith disturbing.

A close call. I'll admit to a bit of over-reaction, but this is Star Wars, people. The movie that I've seen at least 174 times. I'll still get to watch the first/Fourth and favorite with the kid. HBO's been showing all of the movies lately, back-to-back on multiple days; it's a wonder he hasn't seen it yet, but it's destiny - in my experience, there's no such thing as luck.