Last Friday night my husband introduced Star Wars to our kids.  Which left an impact on our seven year old who disappeared to her desk with her colored pencils and drew like her hand was on fire.

She resurfaced with these.

Which–sadly–didn’t mean much to me.  Except that I pieced together that Darth Vader must be the guy in black.

My own introduction to Star Wars hadn’t gone as well.

Thirty one years ago, when owning a VCR meant something, a classmate’s mom lugged their family’s personal VCR from the back of her Honda and into Miss MacDougal’s first grade classroom.

Sitting half in the dark, half in the window light, I watched Star Wars for the first time and realized… the force was not with me. I’d love to say I understood what I was watching, or that I even enjoyed the movie experience.  But I truly only remember how dry and unbuttered the popcorn was on my paper towel.

Yesterday, as The Phantom Menace resounded through our speakers, my son and I met in the kitchen over a bag of chips. It seemed the non-Star Wars gene hadn’t fallen far.

And then my son spoke from mid thought.  ”Yoda,” he said. “He should be called Mr. Baking Soda.”

And I nodded.  It made sense to me.