Confronting the Dark Lord
Written By Alice Bradley
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Henry was born in October 2002. "I can't wait until the first time he watches Star Wars," Scott said to me during one of our first days at home. He was looking down at our 7-pound lump of innocence whose mind was unblemished by Lucasian mythology. "Can you believe he doesn't know about Star Wars yet? It's going to be amazing."
"I know, and can you imagine how great it will be if you wait until he's the same age you were when it came out? Then it would be like this special rite of passage for him. You were, what, 6? We should definitely wait until then. Man! That's going to be something!" I said, trying to muster up a little enthusiasm.
Scott saw right through me. "Six years? You think I'm going to wait six years? If he could hold his head up, I'd show it to him right now."
"The years will fly by. I bet you won't even notice how long it's been." "I'd be surprised if I can wait two years." "Scott. A 2-year-old can't watch Star Wars. It's not age appropriate." I had just learned about things being age appropriate and I liked to pull it out, to show that I knew something about child rearing. "Three years, then. I can fast-forward through the violent parts, you know. It's not like he'd notice."
I made a lot of noise about not liking Star Wars, but the truth is, I love my husband, and my husband loves Star Wars, and I like it when he's happy. If Henry fell as hard for Star Wars as Scott did, I thought, it would make Scott happier than if his son were doing quadratic equations in pre-K. I actually worried that Henry might grow up to be a boy on whom Star Wars didn't make any particular impression. Maybe he'd prefer playing cowboy, or dental hygienist. Perhaps he would suffer from a delicate constitution, and space scenes would make him vertiginous. Maybe he'd enjoy lacrosse. What would Scott do with a son like that? I soon discovered that I had nothing to worry about. One December morning, two years into Henry's life, Scott sat our son on the couch and played a few minutes of Star Wars for him. Until that point, Henry was your typical truck-loving toddler. He would look at books about space, but was far more interested in, say, articulated crash rescue vehicles. Just a few minutes of Star Wars would change all that.
As was our weekend custom, I was sleeping while Scott took the morning shift. I wasn't there for Henry's transformation to Rabid Star Wars Fan. I'm not sure what annoyed me more — that Scott was showing him a movie we had agreed to wait on, or that I didn't get to see his face at the moment of discovery. No matter: This was his dad's thing, and his dad got to be there for it. When I walked into the room, they were huddled together on the couch. "Don't get mad, I'm just showing him Yoda," Scott told me. There was Yoda hobbling about, messing with syntax, doing what Yoda does. The scene ended, and Scott turned off the television. Henry was pointing at the set, as if Yoda had been permanently imprinted on the blank screen. "What was THAT?" he said. His favorite Tonka truck fell off his lap. He didn't notice. Scott said, "I think he liked it!"
Henry couldn't stop talking about Yoda all morning, then all day, then all week. Scott does an excellent Yoda, and I do not. Henry wanted to hear Yoda. Often. Thus was Scott called upon, often while at work, to utter such grand statements as "My best pal, you are," and "Eat your green beans, you will." It was my job, according to my son, to conjure up tales of him and Yoda sharing adventures. I tried to transform Yoda into an upstanding model of toy sharing and peaceful snack negotiations. Henry cut me off. He was not interested in my useless morality tales. Only his father understood what he needed: more Star Wars.
Next: More Yoda, Please
