It's finally getting colder in Austin. Yesterday Edan and I got out of the car and strolled through some random neighborhood, just to be outside in it. She kept complaining about the wind, but didn't want to go inside -- the gusts of chilly air still novel to to a child who probably just barely remembers the last time she felt cold outdoors. To me they're a comfort -- a reminder of being young, and being home.

Only rarely do I get to share such an iconic part of my childhood simply by zipping up her sweatshirt.

Later, back in the car, Edan suddenly announced -- with the shock and urgency that generally accompany such proclamations -- that "I have to go potty!" Usually the dramatics are just for effect, and her declaration can be translated as "Excuse me, father. I don't wish to be indiscreet, but when you have a moment, I could do with quick visit to the loo. Much obliged." However this time she started squirming in her car seat, and had the kind of worried look that suggested I might soon be scrubbing that car seat with disinfectant, so I went into alert mode.

"It'll be OK honey. I'm looking for a place to stop and potty. You'll make it."
"I can't!"
"You can do it!"
"I'm gonna pee in my panties!"
"Almost there...almost there....almost....there."

And Edan smiled, because she's heard that last quote before. It's what the Red Squadron X-Wing commander says over and over as he tries to shoot a torpedo into a 2-meter wide thermal exhaust post on the Death Star -- a hit that would start a chain reaction that could destroy the station!

It's my fault that my daughter is enamored with Star Wars. After a nerdy childhood during which I must've watched Episodes IV, V and VI about 8,000 times, I am incapable of telling anyone that we're almost anywhere without referencing that brave commander's final flight. Subsequently, on a walk with my impatient daughter a few months back, as she demanded to know when we'd reach our destination, I assured her that we were "almost there...almost...there" - and when she asked me why I was talking like a weirdo, I explained that I was quoting one of the greatest movies of all time. During which, a group of valiant rebels fight back against Darth Vader and the Empire -- who want to control everybody, and are mean. Now she can't get enough of Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Princess Leah, Obi-wan Kenobi and the unlikely band of intergalactic misfits that would one day restore peace and justice to the galaxy.

So, as she peed in a gas station bathroom, I told her about The Force. Then I did my Yoda impression, which was a big, big hit.

Every couple of days Edan asks me when she can watch the movie she's heard so much about, and every time I tell her "when you're older." Finally, at the end of our first fall afternoon, the potty crisis officially averted as we climbed back into the car, she stopped and said: "I am old!"

And she's right. As the seasons change, and the last gasps of our lengthy summer finally give way to an autumn chill, everyone seems just a little bit older than they were yesterday -- myself included. All afternoon, as I watched Edan chase down the street, all zipped up and covered by a little purple hood, I was amazed at how grown-up she looks all of a sudden. She's not a toddler anymore.

She is old.

(But she's still not watching Star Wars for at least another year -- and even then, I'll make her cover her eyes during all the scary parts.)