I Was A Hot Crying Mess During Toy Story 3
In case no one’s told you yet, you’re going to cry when you go see Toy Story 3, and not just because of the price -$58.50 for 2 adults, 2 kids -of the 3D movie tickets. I don’t care how hard and, “I never cry in movies,” you think you are, you’re gonna shed at least one tear.
Or, if you’re me, you’re going to turn into a hot crying mess with snot running all out of your nose, and rivulets of mascara streaming down your cheeks. I didn’t even have a box of tissue, my biggest “I just had plastic surgery” sunglasses or a jacket to throw over my head to disguise my wreckery. I just had to slink out of the theater looking like a hot crying mess.
Going to the movie was part of a slew of Father’s Day activities and, unfortunately for my appearance, I didn’t read a single review of it so I had no clue I’d be turning into an emotional wreck. My only clue that I might be in trouble came when I posted on my Twitter feed that I was at The Grove’s theater to see Toy Story 3 and one of my followers replied that it might make me cry. I dug through my bag for a tissue and came up 100% empty-handed. I told myself, “It won’t be so bad. I’ll probably just get a little teary-eyed.”
Clearly, I was delusional. I’m not going to give away any major plot points, but I knew I was in trouble when the tears started up five minutes in. The film was a total emotional rollercoaster and I cried several times throughout – and then the last 10 minutes hit and I was a blubbering, sobbing mess.
Sure, I cried because I thought about my own attic-stored toys, and my treasured secret-agent teddy bear, Adam -12 – and now he’s stuck in a dresser drawer. But Toy Story 3 really made me reflect on how life changes way too fast and my kids are growing up so quickly.
At the end of the film, my six year-old, Mr. T, turned to me, threw his arms around me and said, “I love you, mommy,” and he hugged me tight for about a minute. That just made me cry more. Finally, we were the last people in the theater and T said, “I’m not gonna be small enough to carry much longer, am I?" I shook my head no and he asked, "Mommy, will you pick me up and carry me?”
I picked him up and carried him out of the theater and all the way to our car – added bonus: hiding my red, tear-stained face in his cheeks was good camouflage for me.
These moments are so fleeting. My nine year-old, Mr. O, is so tall he comes to my shoulder and he wears almost the same size shoe as me. I can’t pick him up anymore. I wish there’d been a flashing sign saying, Warning! This Is The Last Time You'll Be Able To Pick Up Your Son! If I'd known, I would’ve treasured it more, held him a little tighter, and hesitated to put him down.
I can’t stop time, and I want my boys to grow up – I’m so excited to see what amazing men they're going to become, but at the same time, it’s hard.
And now I'm going to go cry again. At least this time I have some tissue on hand.