WARNING: If you have not yet seen the first Star Wars trilogy and don’t like spoilers, DO NOT READ THIS!!

 

I saw my husband destroy the future of a 5-year-old boy.

Here’s how it happened:

Last month, Erick and I went on what passes as a “date” for us these days: we left the girls with their visiting grandparents, and took our cars to get snow tires put on. Because it would take over an hour to get the snow tires on both cars, we decided to go for a walk in the neighborhood behind the tire dealership.

Since we live in a small town, it was inevitable that we’d run into somebody we know. In this case, we ran into some good friends from church: a mother and her two sons, playing outside. The oldest son, age 5, had recently discovered Star Wars thanks to some “easy reader” books in his kindergarten library. Let’s call him Lucas. As we approached, Lucas and his younger brother were racing around a grassy field, using sticks as light sabers.

Since Erick has three daughters, he doesn’t get to engage in much light saber play these days. So while I talked to the mom, Erick happily jumped into the action, declaring himself Boba Fett and submitting to 30 minutes of poking by little boys with sticks.

As it began to get dark and we walked our friends back to their house, Erick and Lucas discussed whether the Jedi or the Sith win at the end of Star Wars. “Of course the Jedi win,” said Erick, “The good guys always win in the end.”

Lucas’s mom, who wasn’t entirely thrilled by her son’s exposure to the violence in Star Wars, seized on this as a teachable moment. “Right, Lucas,” she said. “and it’s like we talked about: if somebody’s being mean, instead of fighting back, you can show them how to be kind.”

“Yeah,” Erick added, “Like when Luke Skywalker finds out Darth Vader is his father, Luke gives him a chance to do good at the end.”

Lucas stopped short, and looked up at Erick with huge eyes. “Wait,” he demanded, “Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s FATHER?!?”

Erick and I slowly turned to look at each other, our faces twin masks of horror: eyebrows raised, mouths in silent O’s.

Because, of course, the discovery that Darth Vader is actually Luke Skywalker’s father is a pivotal plot point in Star Wars, and it isn’t revealed until the end of the second film. Lucas has yet to watch any of the Star Wars films, but now it’s too late; Erick has ruined the experience for him. While his friends watch innocently, set up to be shocked along with Luke at this horrible revelation, Lucas will now know what’s coming. With one sentence, Erick stole his innocence. It’s the equivalent of announcing that (WARNING: More spoilers!) Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy don’t exist, or that Rosebud is a sled.

I shared this story because I think it’s funny, but there may also be a point to it. Sometimes, as parents, we’re perhaps a bit too quick to jump on those “teachable moments,” to become didactic and rush to impart deep life lessons to our children. Our intentions are completely honorable. But could it be that, in doing this, we rob our children of the magic that comes from direct experience? Simply put, we talk too much. We didn’t need to tell Lucas that the good guys win in the end; eventually, when he watched Star Wars, he would’ve figured that out for himself.

This parenting gig, it’s like flying your X-Wing Fighter into the Death Star without a radar. May the force be with you.

In my last post, I announced that we’re expecting our fourth child in early June. This may have surprised some of you, but not as much as it surprised us! That’s right; if it wasn’t already obvious, this child was a WHOOPS!

Let me be clear right away that I’m totally aware of what an unfair blessing it is to conceive a child without trying. So, when I say that this child was a WHOOPS!, I don’t mean that we aren’t happy to be expecting, or that we don’t already love this baby.

It’s just taking me a while to process.

I had convinced myself that we were through having children. I’d laid out all sorts of rational arguments against having a fourth child. I’d even written down my logical progression from wanting a fourth child to wanting a dog, and that story made up the bulk of my last post. If the ending of that post seems abruptly tacked on, that’s because IT WAS. I wasn’t expecting to be expecting. The big news was supposed to be the dog.

But, here we are.

When you’re pregnant with your first, second, or even third child, people are so happy for you. “Congratulations!” they squeal.

When you’re pregnant with your fourth child, most people aren’t quite sure whether to congratulate you. “Wow,” they whisper, and their eyes get really big and scared, like you’ve just told them that you’re starting a cult — which, in some ways, I guess you are.

And when you’re pregnant with your first, second, or even third child, it can be such a fun and creative thing to figure out how to break the news to your husband. When I found out I was expecting Campbell, Fiona handed Erick a little jar with two pickles in it — get it? Because we were going to have TWO pickles in our family.

Here’s how it went with #4. Scene: Dawn. Erick sitting on our bedroom floor, checking his email.

ME (emerging from bathroom): Um, so, I think I might be pregnant.

ERICK: You’re SERIOUS?!?

Four children seem a little…excessive. We will now have no extra room in our minivan, no empty seats at the dining room table. And I can’t even imagine how much MILK we’ll go through in a week. (Note to self: Need larger refrigerator, stat). Erick has pointed out that, if we ever want to get those little personalized stick-figure family decals for the rear windshield of our van, we’re close to running out of space.

I feel guilty: Guilty about our family’s combined carbon footprint. Guilty because we’re contributing to overpopulation. Erick tells me not to worry, that in his professional opinion as a PhD-holding economist, our family won’t make a significant difference in these problems. But I know that if everybody thought that way, we’d be in trouble. And most people DO think that way.

Also, I feel anxious: Anxious about having to go through the whole pregnancy/childbirth/newborn thing AGAIN. Anxious about where we’re going to put one more child. Anxious that this baby will be a BOY (we aren’t finding out) — what will we do with a BOY?!? Anxious that Erick and I will never have another date night for the next decade, because frankly, I think four children (and a dog) is even a little too much for the grandparents to babysit.

I’ve written before about my tendency to add things like children, chickens, and dogs to our lives, motivated by the adage that “You can never have too many things to love.” Although this fourth baby wasn’t an intentional addition, it’s reminded me that another good (but hard) reason to add things is this: It keeps me from any illusion that I’m in control.

I grew up in a pretty controlled environment. I was an only child, and the only pet I had (aside from some fish that cooked when the aquarium heater malfunctioned) was an outdoor cat who didn’t like us very much. So, for the first half of my life, I honestly believed that it was possible to be in control of your life; it was possible to have a spotless house, clean clothes, neat hair, and perfect grades. This kind of thinking caused me endless trouble and anxiety, because the implication is that if you’re not in total control of your life, you’re failing.

When you have three (almost four) children and a puppy, it is impossible to be in total control. Erick likes to say that we’re “Beta Parents:” parents who admire some of the IDEAS of alpha parenting (like teaching your child a foreign language, practicing flashcards, serving only organic foods, and using cloth diapers), but are just too exhausted and burnt to actually follow through. Kiddo Four will cement our status as Beta Parents. Family creed: “Sometimes, a B is just good enough.”

You can either see that as a freak-out-worthy situation, or you can see it as freeing. I’m trying to choose the latter. (Some days I choose it better than others).

So, bring it on Kiddo Four. We are waiting to love you in our own imperfect, not-in-control way. I hope you like dogs, and sisters.