Toy Story 3 is being broadcast every five seconds, and I can’t stop watching it. The afternoon that I took my kids to see that in the theater is forever ingrained in my memory. It was one of those weird, drifting days after dad died, after everyone had gone home and mom was back at work and trying halfheartedly to throw me out. It was about 900 degrees out with 102% humidity, and we slipped into the cool theater for a little respite.
The movie was adorable, all the nuance of Pixar and nostalgia of toys gone by, and there was the bonus of daycare humor: “daycare is a sad, lonely place for washed up toys that have no homes” and the unexpected treat of college-bound Andy, so cute in an entirely inappropriate Mary Kay Letourneau sort of way.
That day at the movie theater, I wept and wept and wept and wept. It had been a rough few weeks, I had grown fairly adept at just carrying on while tears streamed down my cheeks, and I always had tissues. But at the end I was totally doing Oprah’s ugly cry.
It was the movie, the moment, the life.
And now when I watch this movie, I feel so……deeply. I just feel, these intense waves of emotion over whatever’s going on around me. I find it cathartic. Therapy by Pixar.
Have I mentioned that my kids have been out of school since April Fucking First? I love them. I looooooove them. But oh sweet little 8 pound 7 ounce baby Jesus, enough. Enough! We’re so fortunate that I have the kind of job where they can come to work with me and enjoy it, and we’ve thrown in enough days off and mini adventures to make the month special, but it’s just a lot. I can’t quite work and I can’t quite parent, I’m just stumbling around entertaining and/or yelling at and/or feeding and/or negotiating with my offspring and my employees. Enough. They go back on Monday!
We are in a horrible pet predicament. Taco the hamster is unwell. He’s suddenly got a huge tumor in his chest, right between his front paws. He’s kind of shaky and squinty and he is drinking tons of water, not running on his wheel. Every morning, I think he’s a goner, and every night, he rallies and ambles over to say hello with a little twinkle in his somehow cute albeit distinctly rodent eye. He’s eating, enjoying the treats we’re doling out in the
hope fear that each meal will be his last. I am not ashamed to admit that I hope he dies. He’s sick, he’s a hamster, and if nature doesn’t take its course I’m going to have no choice but to employ one of the very helpful tips I received via facebook for how to make like Kevorkian and help the poor bastard cross the rainbow bridge. The kids are understandably upset, Taco is a nice guy, he’s never given us any trouble other than an occasionally chucked poo pellet when his cage cleaning has been neglected. My boy is more accepting of the inevitable, but he is way too optimistic about how long Taco might stick it out. My girl is inconsolable. Do NOT mention it, or she will weep, and seethe. I distract her with frequent viewings of Toy Story 3.
Shit, now we’re both going to be basket cases whenever we see this movie.