The best thing about being child-free was the ability to boast about not seeing all those childish animated movies, like “Shrek” and “Finding Nemo.” It was something that I was proud of, no matter how many adults swore that those movies “aren’t just for kids!

”

But now that Chooch is obsessed with cars (his body shudders with glee every time we drive past Toys R Us, because he knows that’s where cars can be bought), and that he owns every character from the movie, Henry decided the next obvious step would be to, I don’t know, let him watch the movie “Cars”?

He DVRd it the other day and I put it on this morning, hoping it’d captivate him long enough for me to wash the dishes. I didn’t anticipate that it’d instead captivate me. Chooch watched a little bit of it, but mostly spent the time terrorizing the cats and knocking things off the table. I was vaguely aware of what he was doing, enough to make sure he wasn’t lacerating himself or sticking his fingers in sockets, but goddamn, I didn’t want to stop watching.

When there was about fifteen minutes left, I couldn’t take any more of the incessant need to pause to ensure my kid wasn’t slaughtering a cat, so I deemed it nap time. Once I ditched him in his crib, I was able to watch the rest of the movie sans interruption and distraction, and free to let the tears flow.

Fuck, that movie really touched me. And at least now I know all of their names so I don’t have to refer to the toys as “the blue one…no not that blue one, but the dark blue one” and “the brown one with the buck teeth.”

Now I get to go to class (ugh, this semester started back up again way too soon) with bloodshot eyes.