Sam’s kindergarten class recently attended a local children’s theater production of “The Emporer’s New Clothes.” A few days before the field trip, I mentioned the story was written by a man named Hans Christian Anderson.

“And George Lucas, too,” Sam added.

“No.” I said, utterly confused.

“The Emporer is in the play, though!” he countered.

I got it—Sam was thinking of the evil lightning-spewing, in-dire-need-of-a-good-moisturizer Emporer from the Star Wars movies. He is familiar with George Lucas because the boys like to listen to the CDs we have of the Star Wars radio drama produced years ago.

I began to imagine the Emporer ordering a new black hooded robe from intergalactic jokesters and Darth Vader being too afraid to tell him he couldn’t see the rough hewn material, “Yes, Master, you will look absolutely ghoulish in that fabulous fabric…”

This morning I took my two little guys to SuperTarget. Two-year-old Joel was on the loose, but being quite good until we got to the spaghetti sauce aisle.

He saw Paul Newman’s blue eyes on the side of a jar and decided to show me his find.

Before I could say anything, the jar was dropped and it crashedsplatteredspewedsauced the floor, his shoes, my pant legs.

My first thought, which proved to me my pregnancy is on the right track, wasn’t “oh, no!” or “how embarrassing!” or “what a mess…”

It was “WOW. That smells really, really good.”