So, I don't get out much (three kids) and my Blockbuster Online account is my sole access to the real world. I rarely see movies in first run theatres which is a big change from a few years ago when we would go see at least one a week, but with the addition of two more children, no can do.
Last night Father and Oldest Son went to an Owlz game. It was important bonding time that I heartily encouraged. They couldn't possibly have known that (ohh, time for a tangent. Most of you know all our names, but I'm trying out monikers to protect my family from...well, "kooks that konk" (grandma's phrase) on the internet, I guess. So we will be known as The Canadian Rose, Cotton, Mr. Man, The Princess, and Mr. Boy.)
Back to the story. They couldn't have known Mr. Boy would go Exorcist at the dinner table. Well, he's 13 months old and I can't possibly keep track of everything that goes into his mouth. I'm guessing that's what did it, whatever it was. Boy did it do a doozy on him. I got him bathed and put down and then The Princess. Then it was time for me to sit down with a much deserved chick flick and attend to some wrinkly laundry. The movie of choice was P.S. I Love You. I didn't know anything about this movie (except that Gerard Butler was in it and my mother-in-law read the book and liked it)and there was no trailer on the DVD. So I didn't know that 10 minutes into the film, just after you are totally in love with Monsieur Butler because of this sexy (and by sexy, I mean funny sexy, which is WAY sexier than just plain sexy)dance that he does in shamrock boxers, suspenders, and socks--10 minutes into the film, you are at his funeral!?! Well, thank you very much. There may be a certain lunar tug on my hormones presently, that may have exacerbated the situation, but I had a headache at the end of the film from crying ALL THE WAY THROUGH IT! Stupid movie.
Also, I was interrupted part way through by Mr. Boy puking and the other end also. So, I'm bawling already and there's my baby with grey skin, purple lips, and black circles for eye sockets. And stiiiink-EE! He got his second bath, sheets were changed, The Canadian Rose was called. (I love the part of mothering where I get to actually comfort and nurture. I just don't like that the babies have to be sick or hurt for that. Also, someone else could be on clean up duty.)
But, I couldn't leave the movie where it was. I had to see it through! I'd invested too much emotion not to get my happy ending! I brought Mr. Boy, a towel, and the puke bucket back down to finish the movie. He watched a lot of it lethargically with his head on my lap and puked (mostly dry heaved) a couple more times, and I continued to sob. Stupid movie.
The Canadian Rose and Mr. Man made it home around midnight (13 innings)and The Rose says Mr. Boy "looks like the dead kid in Pet Semetary." Yeah, I know.
Well, I finished the movie, Mr. Boy puked one last time, then drank a cup of water, and returned to the land of the living before dozing off to a solid night's sleep.
And I dreamed of kissing an amalgam of The Canadian Rose and Gerard Butler.
All's well that ends well, no?
