Death Star

Boba Hatt

Ed. Note:  Apologies in advance that the next couple of Christmas-related posts are going to be very Finn heavy, because let's be honest, babies are pretty useless at Christmas.  They pull fragile crap off the trees, threaten to ingest electrical lights and are constantly disappearing into the garbage bag full of discarded wrapping paper.  At least when I do that, it's because I've had too much Egg Nog.  Edie doesn't have any excuse.  We'll get back to baby stuff in the new year, I promise.

Finn has been pretty clear about what he expected this Christmas.  Unlike previous years, where we were forced to intuit what he might want based largely on what we want him to want (hello, large art easel which serves no purpose in our house other than to ensure chalk covers everything within a 20-ft radius), he has been adamant for at least three months now that Santa has only one priority:  the Lego Death Star.

This was unfortunate, not because I wouldn't want the Lego Death Star (Have you seen that thing?  It's AMAZING!), but because it is apparently made out of gold, based on its price.   Price was not a negotiating tactic with Finn, however, as he insisted that Santa could make it for free.  I disabused him of that notion with a three-hour lecture on the intellectual property of both Disney/George Lucas and the Lego company and the cost of licensing that would still need to be paid even if Santa did somehow have a way of fabricating the same level of quality brick that Lego does (doubtful) - but he was not dissuaded.  I need to work on that speech.

Terrified of setting this sort of precedent for Santa, we decided to drop to our knees and beg family to help finance this planet-destroying plastic behemoth and luckily family came through.  I wasn't going to make this easy on Finn, however.  You know, on principle.  As we wrapped all of the presents on Christmas Eve, I purposely didn't label the Death Star and tucked it in the back, intending to pull it out only once he had been reduced to tears.  That's a surefire way to make him appreciate his stuff.  Break his heart, then deliver.  I'm a hero to my children.

On Christmas morning, Finn predictably went looking for the Death Star and as he opened present after present, got increasingly confused.  He did ask about the big present in the back, but I told him it wasn't for him.  And he bought it.  Until he was done opening the presents, then he came up and asked where the Death Star was.

"I don't know, dude.  I told you it was expensive and Santa probably couldn't afford it.  Looks like he just couldn't make it happen this year.  I'm sorry buddy, but we don't always get everything we ask for."

He looked up at me, looked over at the big package, looked back at me and stated matter-of-factly, "That's the Death Star, daddy."
"No, buddy, I don't think..."
"That's the Death Star."

*sigh*  Next year, I'm going to need to up the ante if I'm going to break his heart.  I need to leave his prized present in the garage.

But since I wasn't that smart this year, here's what True Love looks like:

Of course, this picture was immediately followed by the stunning realization that the Lego Death Star has nearly four thousand pieces, a 240+ page spiral-bound instruction guide and will take roughly four years to put together.  Finn has already tried to pawn this off, telling me that it would be "OK" if I wanted to put together the whole thing.  Nice try, buddy.

And so it was that I Edie-proofed our entire breakfast nook to act as the Death Star construction zone.  Once that was done and Finn and I decided to get to work, he looked at me and said:  "Daddy, I'm a nervous wreck."

When I was done laughing, I had to admit that I was too.

And that's what Christmas is all about.