So the new Star Wars movie; I bought a ticket. I went. I experienced joys that are only comparable to that of seeing my wife and children emerge from the galactic womb as re-born Marvel superheroes intent on securing my legacy as the greatest closet nerd in human history.
Yes, it's good.
You know what's not good? Poverty, war, and my cell-phone data plan.
Also, taking small children to cinematic masterpieces that should be enjoyed collectively in awed silence.
There were a few things that I promised this blog would not be, namely, 'another' parenting blog. Well, I'm a hypocrite and it turns out I also have children. They consume my world; they consume it in a way that I can't describe. They eat everything in my world; but usually nothing on their plate. And it's friggin' beautiful. There's no harm in admitting that all the good parents understand that life just kinda stops for about 70 billion years when you have kids. That's the important part of being a parent; you miss stuff.
You miss the new Star Wars movie (unless, unfortunately, you are geographically separated for a little bit from your family because WORK (GAAHHH WORK $*%&#!)). Sorry for all the punctuation. You miss all things Twitter and Instagram and Netflix - at first - because you're too busy NOT missing your kids. You watch movies 12 years after they come out because you are too busy making sure your kid understands the importance of covering his mouth when he coughs (so all the little green men in his lungs don't have a chance to invade Poland). You check Facebook for two minutes while you're at work because you're too busy at home making sure your kid 'gets' why Spider-man is better than all other super-heroes. You have to make sure they eat too, which every parent knows is a task that takes a MINIMUM of 14 hours a day. EVERY. DAY. You miss catch phrases, the 'big game,' and email blasts about sales that are only going on for the next ten minutes. You miss those things and never look back, cause you're too wrapped up in watching the greatest adventure there is; growing up.
I don't like to be the guy that judges. I especially don't like being the dad that judges other dads, but sometimes...I am. It sneaks up on me.
'You shouldn't let that kid sleep with you EVERY night.' 'You shouldn't let that kid swing from those rafters.' 'JESUS, PLEASE GET THAT KID TO A HOSPITAL - HE'S DRIPPING THINGS FROM EVERYWHERE.' These are the things I say to myself, in my head, and not out loud cause I don't know the right way to parent and I'm not about to impose my ignorance on some other guy that has no idea how to parent. I'm getting to Star Wars, I promise.
Someone brought their kid. Not their seven year old 'she-can-probably-handle-this' kid, but a full blown little rugrat that hasn't really mastered the whole dexterity thing yet. When they walked in, I put my judgement away and told myself that the parents in question know what's best for their child, and maybe that's Star Wars. Probably not, but hey, I'm not here to judge. I'm here to watch things go BOOM.
He immediately started wailing. LOUD. They tried rocking him; nope. They let him run around the theater, slightly supervised by a room full of strangers in the dark. They let him have a ball, which he then tested the 'bounciness' of on every available surface. He ran back and forth in front of the screen. This is what really did me in.
Imagine, you are seeing the sequel to three movies that were significant in your childhood (when it was age appropriate and you had mastered how to hold a spoon), and in that movie, there are dramatic pauses. You know, with SILENCE. But they are interrupted by the pitter-patter of little feet. In all other situations, that sound makes my heart play beautiful symphonic masterpieces. Not when I'm watching Star Wars, alone, away from my own little pitter-patterers. Two things flashed through my dad-brain when I heard that sound; 1) I wanna pick up that little munchkin, rub his head, and then give him the best tummy raspberry in history, and 2) if those parents don't get that little snot out of here I'm going to do something. #1 was out of the question because, well, you shouldn't pick up a strangers kid when you are sitting alone in the dark and give him tummy razzes. I went with number 2.
I brooded and judged in silence (did you expect me to call the authorities?). If you think your child can handle a two and a half hour space-opera, then by all means, feel free to test that theory. When that theory fails, do what any good scientist (or parent) does; take him away from the light-sabers and try again another day. I get it. You spent $40 to get your family in to see the hot new movie; but your kiddo just aint't ready. You're gonna have to eat that ticket - and many more to come - because that's what happens when you're a parent. You miss stuff, even when you've already paid for it.
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