Last night, the missus had a work-related dinner to attend, so it was a guy night in the phisch bowl. The little phisch consumed mixed veggies and fish sticks (the irony of this statement is not lost on me), whereas I consumed mixed veggies with leftover red beans & rice. And we watched Star Wars. The first attempt at the viewing with my son of the movie which made such a tremendous impression upon me when I was six was met with some...boredom. He knew who some of the characters were, after all. I don't think you can know me at all, or swim in this tank we call home, without encountering, in some random, non-deliberate fashion, characters from the Star Wars universe. But we never really made it through that first viewing of the movie. Not together, anyway. While he decided he was bored and went off to play with Thomas on the train table, or roll Lightning McQueen around the floor, I finished watching the movie. Because, c'mon, it's Star Wars. I'm not sure what changed between then and now. Perhaps it was my receiving the entire Star Wars Mr. Potato Head collection for my birthday this past December. Darth Tater, Storm Tater, and R2 Tater have all occupied a place of semi-honor in the formal dining room, and the little phisch has been allowed to play with them. We've read this Luke Skywalker children's book I picked up two years ago at the Friends of the Flower Mound Library fund raiser. But we haven't really talked about the movie all that much. So I was pleased when I was greeted with a enthusiastic response after suggesting Star Wars last night. After dinner, we enjoyed watching about an hour of it. He asked a lot of questions. A lot. I'm not sure I can begin to describe the totality of "a lot of questions" to those of you who do not have three year-old boys. Bed time was approaching, and we agreed to stop the movie after an upcoming scene. The missus arrived home just about that time, the movie was stopped, and the bedtime rituals commenced. The payoff came this morning. I stumbled downstairs, where the missus and little phisch were already eating breakfast, and on the TV I'm greeted by...Star Wars. Han and Luke are firing down the detention bay while Leia's already diving in to the garbage chute, and Chewie's complaining about the smell. I'm informed, "Daddy, those are stormtroopers!" I smiled, gave him a pat on the head, and turned so the missus wouldn't see the tears welling up. It's done. He's converted. Oh, I forgot to mention he wants his own lightsaber now. He told me last night. Where are the tissues?