This summer, my brand new eight-year-old and I have been reading the Harry Potter series.  I have a small confession: I’ve been entranced with the series despite the fact that I am not the target audience.  I have enjoyed using my kid as an excuse to escape.  Mind you, I usually loathe reading fiction, but this is an exception.

So, I was delighted when our son asked to go to Universal Studios for his birthday excursion because it houses The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.  Outside of the primary attraction, a kiosk was set up like a magic wand shop.  As we three were holding the different wands and attaching each one’s qualities to the supposed characters who wielded them, a Muggle lady (this is to say, a non-magical lady) beheld a wand and asked the clerk, “So, what does it do?”

I buried my face in my husband’s chest to keep from laughing out loud.  “Nothing.” The clerk graciously answered.  “You mean they don’t do NUTHIN’?”  Now all sorts of smart alecky things were running through my head.  For example, “These are ‘Muggle’ wands.  They aren’t magical.”  Or, “Wingardium Leviosa!  Lumos!  Aw, this one’s broken.” And prominently, “Here’s your sign, Muggle.”  But I didn’t.  I did have to walk somewhere else very quickly.

As we were leaving, my son lamented that he had already spent too much money to buy a wand.  I comforted him by reciting the merits of frugality and reminding him, “Besides, your sisters would probably break it…if you didn’t poke an eye out first.”  Then, a panic came over me as I turned to my husband and announced, “Oh, no!  I’ve just become most of the adult characters on A Christmas Story!”