Wrestle Mania!

A few weeks ago I reported that my eldest son wanted to attend his First Holy Communion Mass as Darth Vader.
At the time the boy refused to wear an ordinary suit and was convinced that the Darth Vader get up would render him virtually unstoppable, with an off-the-chart midichlorian count and a deep, smoky heavily computerised voice that would render his classmates speechless when he did the whole ‘Amen’ thing at the altar.
A few other people were concerned also. I was stopped no less than 20 times over the course of the week by complete strangers, spoken to by the school principal, offered a slot on the radio to talk about my family’s would-be jaunt to the chapel in funny gear, offered money to go to Mass in a metallic bikini and a television camera crew were all set to document our family as we got into our Star Wars attire and attend the church. The lady trying to sell me the TV idea – using her level seven Klingon powers of persuasion I imagine – described the proposed programme as being kind of like ‘my Big Fat Gypsy Wedding in Space’.
That wasn’t really the theme I had envisaged when dreaming about my boy’s special day, so I declined.
Besides Daniel has gone completely off the idea, and completely off Star Wars. There’s a mountain of expensive Star Wars toys lying dormant in the corner of his room. Obie Wan Kanobie sits on an idle space cruiser waiting for a space adventure that will never happen. Yoda sits cross-legged on the shelf waiting to converse in condescending and confusing tones to anyone who will listen. A battle cruiser sits silently under the bed, it’s little plastic pilots stare out at odd socks and missing jigsaw pieces, dreaming of the glory days when they flew missions around the rose bushes in the back garden.
My boys’ new fad is wrestling. The bane of mothers everywhere.
We must spend Saturday mornings watching giants of men – with silly names such as Triple H and Ric Flair – jump around a boxing ring in their pants to the soundtrack of bad eighties rock.
My boys spend hours out on the front lawn practising dangerous moves with their wrestler mad mates. There is an injury approximately every 33 minutes and I’m there, like the St John’s Ambulance, with ice packs and ice cream when Indian Deathlock or the Modified Swinging Neckbreaker goes wrong.
I am now forced to go into shops and pay actual money to purchase magazines with really cross-looking, sweaty, brief-attired gentlemen on the front for £5.99 a pop. My boy’s bedrooms are adorned with posters of big scary undertaker impersonators and men with names like ‘Smack Down’. What ever happened to gently, cuddly Winnie the Poo who used to gaze in a friendly manner down from their walls?
This week my boy and his friend had the wrestling match to rival all wrestling bouts out on the street. The fight got dirty – somebody tried an illegal Running Over-the-Shoulder Powerslam – and my boy came home with a shiner which covered half his face.
Yes the bluish tinge of his bruised skin matches his shirt to near perfection.
Yes, it looks awful.
Yes, I have pondered the thought that the Darth Vader mask and cloak might look better in the photos than a big black eye.
I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies and that the boy isn’t insisting on going to the church dressed as a wrestler. At least he will be wearing a proper suit. I feel turning up at the chapel in a pair of red pants with lightning signs on the sides and a silver cape might be a bridge too far.