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.