[Author’s Note #1: This was, of course, the story that I intended to post at the end of November. (You might remember that I posted To Email Anything Less Than My Best instead.) This post ended up being significantly longer than I had initially expected, which contributed to its late arrival.]
[Author’s Note #2: My daughter’s speech is advanced (even according to our speech pathologist), but her diction is still that of, well, a two-year-old. You might recall that, in previous posts, I exactly transcribed the sound of Bo’s early speech, then interpreted said speech in curly brackets. (An obvious example of this practice was in Borealis Aforethought.) But… that method took a lot of time, and I think it somewhat detracts from the narrative flow of a piece. So, I’m just going to write out my daughter’s speech as though she perfectly articulates every word.]
During my pregnancy with Borealis, I finally got to tackle the neglected to-do list that had only grown during my busy college years. I fought a sometimes-losing war against post-graduation and antepartum malaise, but I was still rather pleased by my ensuing productivity. I deep-cleaned my house; I got to 50% proficiency in Spanish on Duolingo; I wrote the first two chapters of a young adult novel; and I even got hired for a temporary regulatory affairs position.
But, by far, the oldest item on that to-do list — and thus, the one I began first — was completing all 120 Power Stars in Super Mario Galaxy on the Wii.
Almost a decade previously, I almost-but-not-quite finished the game. This failure arose from two sources: 1) my awful reflexes, which (if you can believe it) were even worse in my teen years; and 2) the start of my freshman year of high school, which brought with it an unexpectedly heavy homework load. My free time all but vanished, which in turn virtually halted my progress on the game. And so, after months of infrequent — and mostly fruitless — efforts, I finally stowed Super Mario Galaxy for good, but I vowed to myself that, one day, I would return to claim all ten dozen Power Stars.
And that’s what I did. Or, at least, I tried. During my post-college free time, I methodically plugged away on the mostly-familiar levels, with significantly more success than during my first attempt. Finally, I was at the end: the Purple Coin challenge levels… and that’s when I got irrefutably, inexorably stuck on Power Star 116.
Seriously — that level seemed impossible. I tried and tried, but I got nowhere. And so, once again, I stowed Super Mario Galaxy and vowed that, one day, I would return… to have Taylor do that level for me.
Fast-forward about four years. I’m no longer learning Spanish, and my young adult authorship is on an indefinite hold. In fact, most of the items on my pre-parenthood to-do list have been supplanted by a single, overarching task: keep my kids alive and healthy until they’re able to fend for themselves.
And, on that note — it’s not always easy to find appropriate occupations for Borealis. As he gets older, he has been increasingly vocal about his aversion to physical violence and/or social distress — and that, in turn, limits the books/movies/video games that we can use in our parenting.
[Note: For some reason, these feelings do not apply to the shoves and kicks that he levels at his own sister.]
So how does this aversion play out? Well, it was demonstrated — to great effect — during a recent bedtime. Long story short, Taylor and I had a minor contention that led to a Holly-initiated tickle fight. [Note: I’m not ticklish, so this is always a great strategy for me. Best way to work out any marital conflict.]
However, our [mostly one-sided] tickle battle was abruptly cut short by a loud sob. Taylor and I both turned to find Borealis, overwhelmed with anguish, his mouth open in a now-silent cry.
Thinking he might have gotten smacked in the scuffle, I detached from my attack and asked, “Baby, what’s wrong?”
Alas, my son was unable to speak through his shaky breaths. I slid off his bed and pulled him into a hug. “Sweetheart! What’s going on?”
Bo tried again, and this time, he was able to gasp, “You — hit — Daddy!”
Not my best parenting move: I burst into laughter. “Bo! I didn’t hit Daddy — I was tickling him! We were just playing! Look — Daddy is fine!”
Taylor sat up and, in a rare show of solidarity, affirmed, “Yeah bud, Mommy was just playing. Just like we tickle you!”
My son was unconvinced. He wriggled out of my arms and climbed into his father’s, where he whimpered, “Mommy was being mean to you.”
Taylor shot me a smug look over Bo’s head, and I muttered, “Yeah, well, I’m definitely gonna be mean to Daddy after this.”
Bo, thankfully, didn’t catch my limp threat. Taylor just laughed.
Oh, and Aza? Yeah… she laughed too. Just another way in which my kids are opposites.
So, in short, we have to be pretty sensitive about the content that we put before Bo. Even animated stuff can be upsetting — for example, the shipwreck in Frozen or the Be Prepared sequence from The Lion King. [Note: We didn’t even attempt the Mufasa death scene.]
Thus, it’s notable that Bo is not the least bit upset by the “violence” in the Mario franchise… probably because none of it actually seems like real violence — at least, not against people. Maybe it’s species-ist that all the bad guys are animals (or spiky snowballs, or piles of rocks, or anything other than humans) — but I, for one, I appreciate the differentiation. In short, these games still require moderation for overall screen time, but merit less concern over inappropriate content.
Thus, we’ve discovered that a family-oriented video game can be pretty cognitively engaging for our kids. Both Bo and Aza are avid observers, narrators, and backseat drivers of any game — much more so than with one of their kiddie shows. Don’t get me wrong: they love to watch Little Baby Bum. But when it comes to sheer inspiration… Mario wins every time — even when the TV is off.
Rewind to the beginning of November. We had recently finished Super Mario Odyssey on the Nintendo Switch, and we now faced an impossible choice. Should we occasionally replay a completed challenge, or foreswear video games altogether? Well, Taylor faced that choice — I, however, thought that our conundrum was not quite so binary.
“Bring the Wii upstairs,” I suggested for the umpteenth time. “It’s doing them no good to watch the same thing over and over again, and we can’t play anything else with them on the Switch.”
Taylor shrugged. “I think they’re still learning new things.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Oh really?” Turning to Bo and Aza, I asked, “What kingdom are we in right now?”
“Sand Kingdom,” they replied in unison.
“And what kingdom comes after this?”
Bo thought for a moment, then answered, “Wooded Kingdom.”
Taylor checked the map. “Uh, yeah.” Then, in a smaller voice, he added, “I don’t think I knew that….”
I blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, you might be learning new things, but the kids already know this game inside out. Especially Bo.”
Taylor: <grunts in annoyed resignation>
“Look,” I snapped. “Odyssey is not the only game in the Mario series.”
And so, the Wii appeared upstairs not long after.
The following evening, Taylor created a new profile in Super Mario Galaxy — much to the delight of Bo and Aza.
“Mario! It’s Mario!” they shrieked in glee.
Taylor struggled through the first action sequence, then handed the controllers off to me. “Mommy will start. Daddy has to adjust to these weird camera settings,” he explained.
“You mean… normal camera settings!?” I teased. “Wow — after I had to adjust to the crazy camera inversion for Breath of the Wild, now you’ll have to deal with normal settings for this game. I feel so bad for you.”
Taylor stuck his tongue out in response.
I breezed through the opening level, simultaneously narrating the unfolding story to my enraptured children. And I assure you — they were very invested in that story.
As we came upon a trapped Grand Star — the goal of the first level — Bo exclaimed, “There’s a star! It’s stuck! You have to get it out!”
“I know, baby,” I soothed. “I have to change all these yellow squares into blue squares, and then we’ll get the star out.”
Bo examined the screen, then yelled, “Get the yellow squares!”
Aza, in contrast, ignored my explanation, choosing instead to throw herself into my lap, squealing, “I need you to get the star!”
Through my laughter, I finished the simple puzzle and retrieved the Grand Star. My children celebrated as though they — not the Grand Star — had been the recipients of my/Mario’s largesse.
I hugged my kids, then returned the Wii Remote and Nunchuck to my grumpy husband. “Don’t worry, the first galaxy is easy,” I assured. “I’m gonna go make some tea, so I’ll be back in a little.”
I returned several minutes later to find Taylor struggling through the next level. He appeared to be running repeatedly around a very small planet.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“It’s just… this darn perspective shift!” he fumed. “Every time I get on top of the planet, the camera shifts and I end up on the bottom again!”
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen!” I crowed. “Ha, ha, ha! You’ve always been better at video games, but now I’m finally better at something!”
Taylor: <grunts in frustrated defeat>
So, if I hadn’t been certain before, I was now 100% sure that we would play through Super Mario Galaxy — if only so that I could beat Taylor in something.
But, of course, we couldn’t just play video games all day. Even childless adults recognize that video games must be consumed in moderation — and we, much more so. To the whimpers and cries of our children, we ended our Mario playtime after another few minutes.
And that was the pattern for a while: here and there throughout the day, we’d pick up a Power Star or two — and usually die a few times along the way.
[As an aside: You have not lived until your video game skills have been assessed by a toddler. Such critiques are vicious and yet utterly without malice, which somehow makes them that much more painful. Nothing breaks me down quite like Bo’s gentle prodding of, “Mommy, I think this one is too hard for you. We will just wait until Daddy gets home, and then he will do it.” — because, not surprisingly, Taylor’s skills soared past mine almost immediately.]
There was, of course, some obligatory whining at the end of every Mario session, but it mostly resolved when I reminded my kids that whiners wouldn’t get Mario for the rest of the day. We usually set a time for our next session, then quickly transitioned into another mode of play.
Such was the case one Thursday morning, after a particularly harrowing Power Star retrieval. To the groans of my children, I shut off the TV and assured them that we’d play Mario again that afternoon.
But, much to my surprise, Mario didn’t actually end — at least, not for Borealis.
While Aza and I read The Grouchy Ladybug, Bo ran over to our play kitchen and started banging around with no clear aim. He started up a stream of continuous narration, which I categorically ignored.
That is, until he jumped down from atop the kitchen and shrieked, “And now I got the Power Star, and we will flyyyyyyyy back to Rosalina!”
[Note: It’s a bit unnecessary for me to say “Bo shrieked” — because Bo is always shrieking. His normal speaking voice is loud (80 to 90 decibels) and high (G4 to C5). It’s like parenting Dora the Explorer.]
I looked up from the book in bemusement. “Bo, are you pretending to play Super Mario Galaxy?”
“Yes! And now I have to get the next star! So I will fly back to the galaxy!” He clambered back onto the play kitchen, carefully spun around, and hopped once. “Now I am there, and now I can get the star!”
I smothered laughter as Aza slid off my lap and trotted over to join her brother’s imaginative play. As I watched, Bo held up an empty hand and declared, “Look! Here is my Power Star!”
I sighed. Their game clearly needed some physical props. I cast about for something gold — or even something silver. The only thing that came to mind was our steel baoding balls, which I had long since stowed for the safety of our windows and/or children. I retrieved them from a high shelf and paused for a moment to wonder, Is this a really bad idea? Probably.
But then I decided to just plow ahead anyway.
I walked over to Bo and Aza, whose play was collaborative, though not necessarily synergistic. (It was clear that one child had a significantly better grasp of their game.) Squatting down, I held out a baoding ball to each child.
“Ok, so these will be your Power Stars,” I said. “But you have to be very careful. They are very heavy, so you can only use them on the carpet. Do not throw them.”
Both children looked between me and their newfound “Power Stars”.
“Well, does that make sense?” I asked impatiently.
“Yes,” Bo answered.
“Aza?” I prompted.
“Aza, you are supposed to say ‘yes’,” Bo ordered.
My daughter looked between me and her brother, eventually mumbling, “Yeah?” — which was good enough for me.
With those artificial promises out of the way, I set about amplifying the complexity of my kids’ game. Thus far, there seemed to be no obstacles in the way of their goal — but that was about to change.
“Alright, I’m actually going to take your Power Stars back,” I said. Both kids looked instantly aggrieved. I laughed, then explained, “I’m going to put them at the end, and then you’ll have to go through the ‘galaxy’ to get them!”
I set down the baoding balls a mere seven feet away — at the other end of the carpet — then went to grab additional props. In the meantime, Aza ran to retrieve both Power Stars, then promptly returned Bo’s — much to his annoyance.
“Aza!” he scolded. “You need to leave the Power Stars until it is time to get them! Go put them back!”
My daughter screeched in protest and jerked her ball away from Bo, who was attempting to correct this grave error. “No, Bo!” she cried. “Aza’s star!”
I intervened before things could escalate any further. “Ok, ok, ok — Bo, stop trying to take your sister’s Power Star. Aza, please give it to Mommy so that I can set up the game.”
I received back both baoding balls — one willingly, and one less so — and put them back at the edge of the carpet. Then, I dashed to the “starting line” and instructed my children, “Ok, you’ll each ride one of these stuffed animals to get your Power Star! Isn’t that fun?”
Furrowed brows greeted my announcement.
I sighed. “Well, Aza, do you want to ride the cow or the unicorn?”
She chose the latter, so Bo was stuck with the bovine. Aza didn’t wait for me to finish my countdown, so she had a head start on Bo (who, of course, followed the rules). Nevertheless, he raced past her and was the first to claim his prize. I was pleased that he then turned and cheered his sister’s progress.
“Ride your unicorn, Aza! You are almost here!”
She finally reached the end and hoisted her Power Star into the air, much to my and Bo’s delight. Thus, I was unsurprised when Bo demanded, “Again!”
I lasted through a few more rounds of unique Mario play before calling it quits. By the end, the kids had settled into a shaky ceasefire — despite Aza’s continued flouting of “the rules”. Bo eventually resigned himself to the fact that, every once in a while, his sister would detach from the game, grab her Power Star, and race into another room. But, she always returned for more.
I tried to work in as many different Mario-themed activities as I could: collecting five Silver Stars to form a complete Power Star; journeying along a path of Pull Stars; flying from a Launch Star onto the couch; and shattering a crystal to release the trapped Power Star inside. (All of these challenges were, of course, replicated with random assortments of kid toys.)
Eventually, I flopped down on the couch and announced, “Ok, I’m done for now.” I was physically tired from arranging and rearranging the courses, but even more so, I was mentally tired from generating so many individual ideas.
Luckily, the kids took my absence in stride. Bo immediately pivoted back to the play kitchen and stuck his baoding ball in its microwave. [Note: This had been the “crystal” holding the Power Star.] I cringed as he smacked the microwave door and shouted, “Bash, bash, bash!”, then opened the door and announced, “I got it!”
“Woo,” I deadpanned. But, my sarcasm fell on deaf ears. My son was already replacing the baoding ball into the play microwave.
Aza, meanwhile, dropped her star on the carpet and clambered back onto my lap. I suddenly realized that I had lost track of the time — and she was now overdue for her nap. She confirmed my realization with a yawn and an adorable eye rub.
“Oh, sweetie,” I cooed. “It’s nap time! Let’s get you to sleep.”
[Note: In the intervening weeks, my daughter has completely stopped napping. Plz send help]
Several minutes later, with Aza tucked into Bo’s bed, I returned to the living room to find my rambunctious son still pretending to be the galaxy’s best Power Star harvester. [Note: His imagination has developed quite a bit since the events of No Country for Young Dogs.]
Squatting beside him, I asked, “Hey, do you want to come help me with something?”
Bo shot me an incredulous look, so I elaborated, “Don’t worry: you’ll like it.” — which was enough to [temporarily] secure my son’s interest.
Retrieving a large sheet of cardboard, I dropped it in the middle of the kitchen and proclaimed, “We’re going to make a Launch Star.”
You see, an idea had started to form in my mind. It was a Pinterest-y sort of idea — i.e. the kind I usually avoid — but I couldn’t shake the thought of a grand, real-life Mario course, filled with believable (ish) props and mentally stimulating challenges. But first, to fabricate said props.
Within moments, I had pulled up an image of a Launch Star, and I spent the next several minutes tracing out the requisite shape while Bo alternately encouraged and heckled my progress.
“That is a good Launch Star — no! draw the line this way! — ok good, that is the right way.”
Eventually, I had sufficiently drawn and redrawn the shape to both of our likings. I quickly scored the top layer of cardboard, then got out one of our Sherwin-Williams paint samples. (We recently repainted the exterior of our house.)
As I prepped the paint, I explained, “We’re going to paint this yellow, like a real Launch Star, but first we have to paint it white so that the yellow will show up. Ok?”
Bo nodded, then asked, “Can I do it?”
Brandishing the miniature paint roller, I sternly admonished, “Well, yes, I will let you help me, but you have to be very careful because it’s really hard to get this paint out of clothing. Actually, go ahead and just take your shirt off now.”
Bo pulled his shirt off and eagerly reached for the roller, which — after a brief demonstration — I reluctantly surrendered. He immediately went to work haphazardly coating the cardboard.
Eventually, we (mostly me) got the cardboard sufficiently primed, so I stuck it outside to dry, then went downstairs to look through our spray paint leftovers. I was looking for the yellow that I had used to paint the Yellow Brick Road for Aza’s “Wizard of Az-a” themed first birthday — but that color was, of course, not with the other paint cans. [Note: Not surprisingly, I found it shortly after completing this project.] Instead, I settled for the gold that was left over from painting a floral arch in April. (It’s a long story.) I brought the gold can upstairs, but decided to delay its use until our initial coat had fully dried.
“Alright, Bo,” I sighed. “That’s about as much as we can do for now.”
Later that night, I finished up the less-kid-friendly portions of Launch Star construction: spray-painting the star, waiting for it to dry, cutting it out, and layering the product with shipping tape. (Because cardboard is strong, but not Mario-cosplay-with-kids strong.) For added measure, I also prepared the excess material cut from within the Launch Star — a cardboard scrap which, conveniently, was also star-shaped. With that, I was ready for our grand Mario adventure.
And so, after Taylor left for work the next morning, I turned to the kids with a gleam in my eye. “Ok. We’re going to try playing pretend Mario again, and it’s going to be really fun.”
Bo and Aza each fixed me with skeptical — but curious — gazes.
I put my hands on my hips and surveyed our living room. “But first, we have to clean up! We can’t play our game until we’re done with that.”
A few minutes later, all the scattered toys had been returned to their shelves, and Aza still hummed Clean Up, Clean Up under her breath. I quickly vacuumed the rugs, then called an end to our efforts. For the moment, our house looked clean (ish) — so I also shut our dog in my room to prolong the illusion.
And with that, it was time for finishing touches, which I made under the scrutiny of both children. Lastly, I grabbed Aza and plopped her onto the couch, then finally explained the new game setup.
“Ok, so Bo’s going to start there,” I began, pointing to the blanket-covered table. “And he’ll fly to the galaxy, and when he gets there, he’ll ride the bouncy cow to pick up these Star Bits.” I indicated the Froot Loops scattered on the freshly-vacuumed rug.
“I want Froot Loops!” Bo squealed.
“I want Froot Loops, too,” echoed his sister.
I rolled my eyes at the interruption. “Yes, well, you’ll get Froot Loops,” I assured. “First, though, you’ll feed Aza five Star Bits, since she’s the Hungry Luma!”
Here, finally, was Aza’s role in the game: in imitation of the video game version, she would consume “Star Bits” and then transform into another planet. Unfortunately, I didn’t immediately foresee how such a passive role was a poor fit for my rambunctious daughter. Instead, I enthusiastically asked, “Aza, do you want to be the Hungry Luma?”
Aza cocked her head to the side and quietly mumbled, “Aza’s the Hungry Luma.” — which seemed like sufficient consent.
I turned back to Bo. “So you’ll feed Aza five Froot Loops, and then you can eat the extras. No, don’t pick them up yet! We haven’t started the game.”
I waited until Bo had replaced his prematurely-retrieved Froot Loop, then continued. “Ok, so then Bo will get off the bouncy cow, and he’ll spin around on this Sling Star.” I held up the solid star that I had cut from within our Launch Star. It looked nothing like an actual Sling Star — but thankfully, the kids accepted the prop with minimal judgment. As Bo practiced spinning around, I explained, “And that will fling him up to the couch, where he’ll follow this Pull Star path.”
Once again, my props looked nothing like the actual thing — as in, these were merely baseball-sized balls, without even a hint of stellar geometry. The obstacle course was most authentic in its name, which I had lifted straight from an actual Mario level. Thankfully, neither kid mentioned my potential copyright infringement — and I, in turn, ignored it when Aza immediately scattered my carefully-arranged Pull Stars.
Instead, gesturing grandly to the end of the path, I announced, “And here is where Aza will sit! She’ll be the Hungry Luma, so Bo will come and feed her five Star Bits, and then she’ll transform into the Launch Star!”
Bo looked around, then queried, “But where is my Launch Star?”
I sighed. “The Launch Star is hiding… until Aza transforms!”
Rather than accepting my explanation, however, Bo leapt onto the couch and pulled aside a suspicious-looking couch cushion. “Here it is!” he declared. “I found the Launch Star!”
“Ugh, Bo, not yet!” I laughed. “We have to do the beginning of the game first!”
He begrudgingly replaced the Launch Star and couch cushion, then listened to me explain the rest. “And then the Launch Star will get you to a new planet, up here on the half-wall, and then you’ll have to find your Power Star! No, Bo, don’t climb up here yet. Go to the table, because we’re about to start.”
I quickly replaced the Pull Stars, plopped Aza on the couch, and started a video — because I’m no dummy, and I already knew that I was going to turn this event into a [lame] blog post. I may never be a true Pinterest Mom, but my attempts must at least be recorded for posterity.
I directed my camera at Bo, who was already stationed on a chair. It was time to start this social experiment, so I took a deep breath and commanded, “Alright, Bo! Fly to the galaxy!”
For all his introversion, Bo certainly doesn’t have camera shyness. He immediately spun around and vocalized as though undergoing an exorcism — or, you know, as though simulating a trip to a distant galaxy. He then jumped down from the chair and proclaimed, “I just got there!”
The first part of the game — the Star Bit retrieval — started off without a hitch. Bo mounted the bouncy cow and hopped gamely to the rug, where the Froot Loops awaited. My spirits soared. Pinterest Mom, here I come!
And then Aza hopped off the couch, and my spirits plummeted with her.
“Uh, Aza, you’re in the wrong location,” I said gently.
Bo was more straightforward. “Be on the couch so you can be the Hungry Luma!”
When my daughter showed no signs of moving herself, I scooped her up and deposited her back in place. When I returned my attention to Bo, I found him holding a Froot Loop with a look of confusion. He was clearly at a loss for how to hold all of the cereal bits, so I quickly supplied, “Oh, you can put them in the pocket of your shirt.”
Thankfully, Bo was amenable to this solution. He pocketed the first Froot Loop and proceeded to the second — which was when Aza decided, once again, that she didn’t like the passivity of her given role. As before, she solved this dilemma by grabbing one of my carefully-laid Pull Stars.
“No, Aza!” I warned. “Don’t pick that up, baby. Bo has to use those to get to you!”
“Nooooo,” my daughter whined in reply. “I use this ball.”
I laughed in exasperation, but decided to let her temporarily retain the purloined prop. In terms of gameplay, one missing Pull Star was hardly insurmountable. (Or, at least, so I thought.)
But then she noticed the yet-uncollected Froot Loops, and suddenly we were facing a different problem.
“A Cheerio!” she [mistakenly] exclaimed upon plucking one from the rug.
Alas, Bo was not interested in sharing this responsibility. He immediately ordered, “No, Aza! Give it to me!”
I was temporarily at a loss for how to resolve the impending altercation. Defend Aza’s right to keep the Froot Loop? Tear it from her grip? Simply provide a replacement?
In this case, however, I needn’t have worried. To my surprise, Australis complied, carefully placing the Froot Loop into Bo’s waiting palm and returning to stand by the ottoman. “He picked a Cheerio,” she observed of his final acquisition, and I breathed a sigh of relief as our game got back on track.
“Ok,” I said. “Aza, you have to get back on the couch by Mommy, and now Bo has to go on the Sling Star—”
My explanation was temporarily derailed as Aza ignored my direction and joined her brother on the small gold star, where they each proceeded to spin around wildly. I waited until Bo finished with a peppy “Bam!”, and then I lamely concluded, “And that’s how he’s going to get up on the ottoman.”
As Bo scrambled up, I grabbed my daughter and explained for what felt like the dozenth time, “Alright Aza, you’re the Hungry Luma, so you have to be right… here.” Ignoring her murmurs of discontent, I put her down on the couch — again — and plucked the stolen Pull Star from her grip. I replaced it just as Bo announced, “I got up to the ottoman!”
“Great,” I responded. “Now you’re gonna use the Pull Stars to get over here. Go to each ball—”
“I have each ball,” Aza said — and to my detriment, I ignored her.
Bo, meanwhile, hopped excitedly from one ball to the next. But when he got to the final Pull Star…
… he encountered a technical issue.
“Eeeeehhhhhhh!” he screamed in a very infantile manner.
I tried to salvage the situation. “It’s ok! You can use that Pull Star to — well, you can just jump to her.”
Bo attempted to comply, but his outburst had, apparently, scared off his Hungry Luma. She skittered out of his reach, hopped off the couch, and ran to hug my legs. “You Bo,” she scolded.
Bo, for his part, did not take her disappearance well.
Through comically whiny toddler tears, he moaned, “I want Aza to come baaaaack.”
I did a brief mental calculation. Which would be easier: quitting now, or bearing through? I looked down at my daughter, who appeared no worse for wear. It wouldn’t be terrible parenting to push her back into the game, right? (Although, admittedly, I don’t love rewarding Bo’s tantrums.)
“Aza,” I sighed. “Bo has to feed you five Star Bits, because you’re a Hungry Luma.”
[Note: Yes, I could have used some better scripting for my highly-repetitive dialogue.]
To my relief, my exhortation finally stuck — although the impending treat probably helped. Once she was back in place, Bo careful stuck a Froot Loop into his sister’s mouth, which she accepted without protest.
It was such a sweet moment that I was totally surprised when Bo turned and tried to remove the Launch Star from behind its cushion.
“Not yet!” I laughed. “You gotta give her all five — you only gave her one!”
Reluctantly, Bo fished in his pocket for more Froot Loops, then asked Aza, “Do you want to eat it?”
The answer was yes, she definitely did. I narrated, “Two… three… four… five!” as Aza eagerly accepted the Froot Loops that Bo slowly produced.
Finally, all five Star Bits had been consumed, and Bo prompted, “And now I will eat the rest of them!”
“Yes, you can eat the rest,” I acknowledged. Then, picking up Aza, I continued in a much peppier voice, “And now Aza’s sooooo full, so she’s gonna traaaaaaansform!” (Not quite what the real Hungry Lumas say, but close enough.)
To the delight of my daughter — and the dismay of my vertigo — I twirled around several times before plopping her back onto the couch with the announcement, “And she transforms into a Launch Star!”
Without prompting, Bo retrieved and spun around on said Launch Star, then collapsed dramatically to the couch.
“No, Bo,” I giggled, “It launches you up here!”
I moved to the other side of the half-wall, and Bo leapt happily into my extended arms. Complete with Mario-esque sound effects, I heaved him onto our half-wall, where the last “obstacle” awaited.
Meanwhile, his sister grabbed the newly-vacated Launch Star and swung it around wildly, which really made me glad that I had gone through the trouble of reinforcing it.
Atop the half-wall, Bo immediately went to work on the final challenge — which wasn’t much of a challenge at all. I had merely stuck the baoding ball in a box, covered it with foam scraps, and then shrouded the box with a washcloth. Even so, Bo was thrilled as he unveiled the surprise.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“It’s my star! It’s my star!” he celebrated.
“Indeed!” I answered. “Now what are you gonna do?”
In response, Bo “flew” back to the table, wearing a grin that I surely mirrored.
Overall, I was incredibly pleased by the relative success of our game. It felt like the perfect exercise: it required imagination, and teamwork, and focus. What’s not to love? For a moment, in fact, I even thought that maybe — just maybe — this rendition of Mario was better than the original.
But then Bo stowed his Power Star in the play kitchen’s microwave and explained, “I’ll keep it safe here because now we have to play *real* Super Mario Galaxy.”
— which quite effectively dispelled my misconception.
“Ok,” I sighed. “Well, I guess we could play one Power Star.”
Actually, as it turns out, video games come and go, but imagination games are much more resilient. We’ve been done with the “real” Super Mario Galaxy for over a month now, but Bo still asks to play “the Hungry Luma game” on [at least] a weekly basis. And, I’m pleased to report that the Launch Star has held up to a shocking amount of abuse.
Oh, and for the record — Taylor finished that one impossible level for me, and we officially collected all 120 Power Stars. Now I can move on to bigger and better life goals — you know, like getting these stories up within a month of their occurrence.