May 12, 2010
I've been trying my hardest to ignore the Star Wars mania sweeping our household.
But Argy and Bargy are obsessed.
The house is littered with Lego re-enactments and dioramas (imagine Sir Alec Guiness with a removable yellow head and legs that yield only from the hip and you get the picture). Every rolled up newspaper is a light sabre; the cat is a wookie and the Dark Side is no longer just southern wall of the house where only moss grows. I fear we passed the point of no return when it became acceptable to refer to me as Jabba The Hut.
Unfortunately the boys' knowledge of the characters and story lines far outstrips my hazy recollection of a bunch of cuddly ewoks running about on the silver screen. I was completely sunk once I realised that the trilogy of my youth, was in fact a mere sequel to a longer, more complicated storyline. A storyline my children have somehow consumed and digested faster than than a kilo of sweets.
Today, for example: Argy asked me if I recognised what he was.
I had to admit that Boba Fett (who??) did not spring to mind. There was eye rolling, tut-tutting and exasperated exhaling. Apparently it was a durplast helmet not a Thomas The Tank Engine waste basket. And my guess of Winnie The Pooh backpack should really have been Mitrinomon Z-6 Jetpack. My mistake really.
I can see that its really the beginning of the end: the start of what-would-poor-old-mum-know? That small window of opportunity to dazzle my boy children with my omniscience is well and truly over. I'm trying to remain optimistic ... but frankly all I see just now is The Dark Side.