So much changes after you give birth. Things like your knowledge of the hottest clubs, your selling of the two-seater sports car, your once-recreational-model breasts, your considering that a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes is a reasonable purchase.
Last night Jake cajoled me into allowing him watch War of the Worlds. He had already seen it, courtesy of his father, and since we all know that two wrong parenting decisions ultimately make a right one, I relented and viewed it with him. It was appropriate training anyway, for the inevitable arrival of August's 16-hour-a-day marathon television watching.
The imaginary planning began. With every scene, I eyed the correct direction that I would have run with my children. When they got to a (momentarily) safe spot, I thought, hey, that would be a good time to fix them a hot meal because God knows when they would be able to eat again, then spent the next few minutes zoned out picturing the most healthy "last meal for a while" that I could coordinate. I then chastised Tom Cruise for taking them on the ferry--Good Lord, clearly a horrible decision when aliens are mucking about--triumphing "I was right" when the ferry predictably was turned over by a nasty, water-soaked Martian. I had to make it a learning session for Jake as well, pointing out the several times that Dakota Fanning LISTENED to her onscreen parent and THAT is what ended up saving her life.
If I have spoiled the suspenseful moments of the movie for you in this post, I'm sorry. It won't matter then that I now divulge the ending to you. That without any anti-depressants, Tom manages to save his children from the torturous death-spree of the aliens, and learns that eternal lesson: Children Change Your Life Forever.
And I learn that I cannot even enjoy escaping into a suspenseful movie without an Alien-Arriving-Contingency Plan that now includes packing enough formula and a big jar of bird flu.