Anticipation

Toy Story (1995) was the first feature length, computer animated film ever released.  Although the animation may appear dated when compared to current animation releases, it has aged surprisingly well thanks to the excellent filmmakers behind it.  Unfortunately for me, it was released to theaters right as I was scrambling to take care of my paperwork for my year on exchange, leaving me a short, six-week window to catch it in theaters.  Even in an era when movie releases in most countries were weeks, months, or even years behind release dates in the USA, my busy schedule as a new-arrival exchange student prevented any theater viewing until after it had already left theaters Down Under.

As the only working-class exchange-student (I won a scholarship to pay for my opportunity), I was constantly confronted with the reality of my limited means.  My father sent me a stipend that afforded me no luxuries, and often fell far short of necessities.  It was a fact that resulted in Toy Story being driven from my mind until returning home, where the movie was quoted to me endlessly.

The anticipation of the sequel by all of my friends in college prompted me to take the obligatory trip down to Blockbuster (yes, THAT Blockbuster) and rent the now-classic on VHS.  Of course I loved it, just like everyone else.  When the sequel was released, my friends and I were the only adults in attendance without children.  With belated apologies to anyone who had the misfortune to be in our theater, we were those guys in the back row, raucously laughing at all of the adult humor that went over the heads of the children.  Although a handful of fathers joined us, we drew the ire of the majority of mothers that day.

When Toy Story 3 was announced for a scheduled 2010 release, it was a sequel a decade in the making.  Most of the target audience wasn't alive for the release of the previous installment of the franchise, much less the original.  In short, Disney was clearly aware that its audience had never seen the first two movies in theaters, if at all.  So Disney did what Disney does: they re-released the first two movies in the theater in late 2009 in a money grab that paid off.

The one thing worse than being the loud college kids in a theater is being the parent who brings a crying/screaming infant to a loud theater and refuses to leave, ruining the experience for all the other paying customers — at least us college kids were engaged with the movie.  Having owned high quality versions of both movies for years, I took one for the team as I stayed home with my infant son so my wife could enjoy mother/daughter time at the double feature.

My daughter had never been to a movie theater at that point.  She was only two at the time, so it should come as no surprise that she had zero theater etiquette.  Of course, she had seen both movies many times, and possessing the gift of nearly flawless recollection, she had essentially committed both films to memory without trying.  So, in a theater full of many first time viewers, my two-year-old daughter watched these familiar movies as though she were home.  

That would seem harmless enough until that scene just before something terrible happens to Buzz, when my daughter shouted at the top of her lungs (in a silent theater):  

"Oh no, Buzz!!"

Her tiny voice echoed off the walls, prompting the adults in the theater (including my wife) to erupt in laughter, completely ruining the reveal of whatever happened to Buzz next.  I may not have gotten to see Toy Story in the theater, but the story of my daughter bringing down the house was worth the price of admission.

Hitting the Spot

Having children is the ultimate roll of the dice.  Unless you are wealthy enough (and willing) to pay for a Gattica-like process, children are the results of gambling, pure and simple.  We may tell ourselves that we chose our partners wisely, and are comfortable with the variables, but the reality of the variables dwarfs what we actually control.  The size of their feet, the color of their eyes, their talents, their shortcomings, as well as their personalities, are all a result of the most random mixture of yourself and the tiniest part that you control: your choice of partner.  Neither of you gets to choose which traits you would prefer to contribute (making sure to withhold anything you're not proud of).  You get what you get and you make the best of it.

Making the best of your abilities is easier when they're functionally useful.  For example, cooking happens to be one of those talents I inherited.  I can trace it back to my paternal grandmother, who could make a gourmet, mouth-watering meal out of just about anything.  I am grateful for the gift and have always hoped to pass it onto my children as it has served me well throughout my life.  Growing up in a motherless home necessitated trial by fire in the kitchen because single fathers don't believe in snacks.  If I wanted to eat, I had to cook or I didn't eat.  It's no wonder I started cooking at age eight.

Knowing how to cook was an asset for me in college.  I didn't give it a second thought until I realized that all of my roommates were constantly eating take-out, and I was the only one who used the stove.  I was also the only one who knew how to shop for groceries, which is paramount if you're the one responsible for planning meals.  I once had a supervisor who made the distinction between those who prepare hot meals and those who cook.  She insisted she was the former and I was the latter.  

One of the benefits of knowing how to cook is the rewarding love affair with consuming the finished product.  While I have an extreme fondness for eating, I'm not one of those who prefers eating more than cooking — there's simply nothing better than cooking a meal for people you love and watching them enjoy it.  It should come as no surprise that my wife is my biggest fan, often bragging to her friends about how well she eats, and always agreeing when I declare that a meal "hit the spot."  Nobody knows where the spot is, per se, but everyone instinctively knows when a meal hits it.

It should come as no surprise that my children love food, and love consuming my cooking (so much for the randomness of genetics).  They often wander into the kitchen just to enthusiastically inhale the aroma, usually coupled with a comment along the lines of "that smells GOOD!"

One night, when my daughter was four, we had just finished a particularly good meal.  Before I could utter my standby pat on the back, my daughter declared, smiling broadly, "That hit the spot in my tummy!"

Of course it did ... and it seems my daughter knows exactly which spot was hit.

Doughnuts and Cookies

Star Wars has always ignited my imagination.  The epic space opera taking place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away ...

To say it captivated me would be an understatement.  I remember shouting matches on the playground over which Luke Skywalker we would be: the light or the dark version.  Although we didn't realize it at the time, we were choosing between the bright light version (who knew only that he needed to be good), and the conflicted, Jedi version, on the verge of betraying everything as his father had done.  We all wanted to be the black-clad version, of course, clearly missing the intended message.

My son is no different.  He loves Star Wars, and is just as intrigued by the darker-clad versions of characters.  Thanks to the popularity of cosplay, my son met Darth Vader, prompting him to completely geek out, knowing Darth Vader was once Anakin Skywalker, his favorite character.  He also loves the prequels, despite the harsh critique coming from some of the more myopic members of the (supposedly hardcore) fanbase.  When Mark Hamill — Luke Skywalker — tells the fanbase to lay off the prequels, it should count for something.  Regardless of how the often fickle fanbase feels about the prequels, we love them.  They're Star Wars movies, after all, and we frequently watch them as a family.  

On one such evening after watching one of the Star Wars prequels, my wife decided to ask our six-year-old son if he would like to be a Jedi or a Sith.

"I want to be a Jedi!"  He proclaimed, posing with his dinner fork as a stand-in for a lightsaber, "like Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi!"

"Are you sure you don't want to be a Sith, like Darth Vader?"  My wife countered, knowing how much my son loves Anakin.  "The Dark side is really cool."

"No."  He insisted.  "I like the Light side.  I want to be a good guy."

"Are you sure?"  My wife asked him playfully.  "The Dark Side has cookies!"

"No!"  He proclaimed angrily.  "The Light Side has doughnuts AND cookies!"

Of course they do.

A few months later, my wife found a meme online that showed an office on Star Wars Day, depicting a storm trooper delivering cookies to cubicles, with the caption, "and you thought we were lying."  During dinner, my wife decided to show my son this indisputable, photographic evidence.  My son gasped audibly and remained speechless for the remainder of dinner, clearly full of thought at this revelation.

They clearly do have cookies!