Awkward Mom vs. Star Wars - Return of the Jedi

We have returned to finish our Star Wars tale. The Death Star is going down. No more breaks, no more delays. And no tangents. OK...well...maybe just a small one or two.

Harrison Ford is my first crush, and that present tense is totally intended. I don't care how old he gets or if he wants to retire and move to Montana and marry Ally Mcbeal; he'll always be Han Solo to me. That he is also Dr. Indiana Jones was a revelation and occurred a little later; you know, about the time that my parents decided I was ready to see Nazis have their faces melted off by the wrath of God. That sealed the crush (gorgeous, witty, and adept at killing Nazis? Where do I sign?), but Han Solo started it all. While my friends were mooning over the New Kids on the Block, I was papering my bedroom with Star Wars posters, specifically ones with a handsome rouge, rakish scar on his chin, front and center. Why swoon over kids when you can have a man? Especially an exciting smuggler with a grin that would melt steel. Or maybe even carbonite? Oh Leia, I totally get it.

And it appears that Super Baby gets it too. Because we have arrived at the cantina, my dear Readers, and the little girl can't take her eyes off the screen.

We bought the droids, watched the message to Obi Wan, let the Sand People freak us out, marvelled at what Alec Guinness does with 10 minutes of screen time (isn't he in the movie for like 10 minutes total? 10 perfect minutes, that is.), and then we had another touch and go moment when Luke went running back to find the Lars homestead in flames. The Supers seemed to handle it okay. At least, I am pretty sure they didn't notice the charred bodies of Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen; I know I didn't as a kid. (I do now though, thanks for the nightmares, Lucas...) We fooled some stormtroopers and now we are in the cantina, and my baby girl is falling in love for the first time. Oh, it is magic, Readers! That is, unless she has the hots for one of those Biths playing the fanfar....oh God, not a musician. Please, anything but that.

Do you guys ever think about who your children will date? It can't just be me. Maybe it is just me. Even though I don't have a one over 5, I worry about this. I may be old, but the follies of youth are near enough to wince at. One has to kiss a lot of frogs before one finds a prince, and I can vividly remember some of those frogs; all those want-to-be rebels, poor (as in quality of talent, not finances) musicians, and bad boys. And I don't mean Han Solo bad, Readers. I mean, steal your car bad.

I fear for my children sometimes. OK. Most of the time. Who is gonna break their hearts? Because folks are gonna break their hearts; it is a fact of growing up. (I know they are gonna break hearts too, because, let's face it, my children are amazing. But I'll let those other mothers worry about that.) And there is no real way to prepare for it, is there? I don't know who they are gonna fall for. I don't know the mothers of these future frogs. I can't call them up and say, "Hey, in about 15 years, can you tell little Jimmy to let her down gently or wait until after the Christmas dance?" Or "When Ruth decides to date the captain of the football team instead, can you ask her not to announce it on Facebook until she has told Super P. in person? Thanks!"

Right now, Super Preschooler is in love with Leia or pretty much any princess. Since the likelihood of meeting a princess is pretty slim and I don't intend to take him to Europe anytime soon, I think we are safe for the moment. Super Baby appears to have a crush on her father and maybe now Han Solo; same difference. OK. All good. It is that little one sitting on the floor there, waving the red light saber. My middle one; my wild card. I have a funny feeling that he is gonna wanna date someone like this. And I don't mean some future date in his teens. I mean, like tomorrow. But maybe I shouldn't worry about Super Toddler. I mean, first of all, he is no frog. That boy is a catch of the highest caliber. Don't believe me? Just ask him:

We are like a couple steps and a driver's license away from James Bond over here.

And secondly, and more importantly, the child is waving a red light saber and laughing his head off at Greedo; I think I should worry about whoever breaks his heart instead.

Of course, there is a Wookieepeida! Who do you think invented the Internet? It was probably one of the first web sites in existence.

OK, we are heading to Alderaan. Except someone blew it up. So, we change course and are tractor beamed into the Death Star. Holy cats, that thing is huge! About 35 years old and still one of the coolest special effects I have ever seen. The Supers are riveted to the screen. Super Preschooler is shouting for them to stay hidden, and Super Toddler is helpfully urging Darth to look in the floor. Super Baby appears to be speaking Wookie and telling Chewie about her day. After some stormtrooper antics, we are rescuing the princess and nearly drowning in a trash compacter. (Sorry to bring back flashbacks, Crunchy Mom!) Then, Awkward Dad and I share a squeamish look as Leia kisses Luke. Super Preschooler thinks the romance is nice, so I feel no need to burst his bubble. All too soon, it will burst. And all too soon, I am in tears, watching Obi Wan sacrifice himself. Man, he's good. (It has got to be about 10 minutes, Readers. Maybe 15, tops.) I am distracted from mentally awarding Alec Guinness numerous Oscars, when I notice that Super Toddler has now turned a piece of the train table into his very own blaster. He uses it to help shoot down a few imperial fighters, make the jump to hyper-speed, and nearly kill our television. Oh well, think of it as 4D. And we are free of the death star!

It is amazing how fast things move at this point. Rebels are arming, Luke is talking about womp rats, and Han is being all antiheroy. The Supers are battling with light sabers in front of the TV and I miss Han wishing Luke the force. It is OK; it isn't like that scene isn't etched into my brain. We are staying on target. I lose a bet with Awkward Dad, turns out the guy's name really is Porkins. (Really, Lucas? Really?) The force is strong with us all as we delight in Obi Wan's ghostly voice (OK, 15 minutes for real, if you count ghost appearances), cheer Han jettisoning the anti from antihero, as he flicks Darth Vader into distant space, and ooh over the exploding Death Star. We barely have time to get some medals and listen to Super Preschooler explain that he would simply wrap all of Leia's hair into her up-do, that piece hanging down her back creating a rather confusing silhouette, before credits are rolling and Awkward Dad is begging to watch Empire Strikes Back. Right now.

But Super Baby has fallen asleep, and Super Toddler is so keyed up that he is battling stuffed animals, while accusing them of haing a "lack of faith." Super Preschooler is drawing a picture of Leia with the aforementioned up-do, and I am tired. We took down the death star, for goodness sake. Maybe Awkward Dad is worried that now that we have actually watched the movie, Star Wars interest will wane in Awkward Manor. Oh, I very much doubt it. Look around, Awkward Dad. I think the Jedi have returned and are here to stay.

Porkins? Really?