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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Just when I think I have written a great blog, you top it, and do it using half the words.
I don't mean to give you false hope, but breasts continue to be recreational. I had a twelve pack, not a six pack, a twelve pack, for heaven's sake, and I have proof. Peggy saw it. My twelve pack has turned into a keg, but, we still fool around on the playground. The rides are slower and the playground equipment is lower to the ground, but that's just nature's way of making sure no one gets hurt.
I'll watch war of the Worlds again, in LOST IN KIDS mode.
every good alien escape contingeny plan requires the inclusion of delicious and fortifying snacks. while i have never tested my theory, home made rice crispie treats might fit the bill. they are tasy and have a comforting effect. then again could be used as projectile weapons against the aliens (or lures depending on what planet they are from) when they become stale and too much of a challenge for primate teeth.
of course, i prefer the old war of the worlds and orson wells radio play.
suspensefully yours,
monkey
www.himonkey.net
Post a Comment