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Toddlers and Movies Don't Always Mix
Summer is drawing to a close; you have just a little time left to cart your youngsters to movie theaters while complaining about the exorbitant ticket prices. Yes, I know you have a giant flat panel digital TV with surround sound and enough satellite dishes to launch it into space. But if you watch a movie in the forest without spending $25 for a tub of popcorn and a couple of sodas, have you really watched a movie?
Last year as soon as school had been out for thirty seconds, a few of our children began clamoring to celebrate their newfound freedom with a trip to the movies or a visit to the pool. (What - the scummy storm drain behind our house isn’t good enough?) As it also happened to be Father’s Day, wouldn’t their dad just love to fight traffic and the crowds (and relive an abbreviated version of his daily commute) to see “Shrek the Third”? Never mind that the man is happiest lying partially dressed in bed to watch The History Channel until the snoring commences. But don’t be fooled, and don’t you dare turn off the TV. His closed eyes and snoring belie the fact that he is still listening to and absorbing the details of the life of Genghis Khan.
I always get anxious about going to a movie theater, or any theater, for that matter, when I have a toddler in tow. It can be an ordeal, even if an animated kids’ movie is on the menu. After all, very few young children can appreciate the entertainment value of sitting still and quiet in a darkened room. Any one of those conditions alone: being still, being quiet, or being left in the dark, has a strong association with punishment.
I remember the summer of ’92 when my eldest had just turned two. A Disney cartoon, as always, was playing where we lived in Long Island. When we got to the theater, we realized the Disney show would not be on for another forty-five minutes. Our apartment was a twenty-minute drive away. It was one of those classic dilemmas about the man waiting for a bus that is late. If he begins walking, he will surely be late, and you have to choose whether he starts walking or keeps waiting for the bus. We decided on another movie, figuring it was a movie, after all. I cannot tell you the name of that movie because, as it turned out, I never got to see much of it.
The first hour went okay. We had food and drink with which to amuse and occupy ourselves. Never mind that a medium tub (they serve you in containers fit to feed a farm animal) of popcorn and a drink cost more than lunch or the movies, but at least it served to keep the Creature quiet.
No sooner had the comestibles been consumed than my toddler began seeking the next form of entertainment. Little did I realize that I would be providing it. After some fidgeting, I heard those words, so musical and sweet to the mother who has been potty training her child, “I want to make poo-poo.” Wow! Could life get any better than this?
Beaming with pride and a sense of urgency unknown to the parents of the diaper-going masses, I bustled out holding the tiny hand of my little person. However, there was no reason to get happy; this was a fake-out. She toured the bathroom, hallway - every place where there was light and you didn’t have to sit still or be quiet. I tired of the game, and was no longer nervous of the dreaded “accident,” so we returned to our seats. A couple of minutes later, I heard “poo-poo” again. This time it had not the magical or chiming quality, but, being a conscientious parent, I fell for the trap. And then, even one more time after that. My husband has always said that I’m gullible, and I think my kids have sensed it from their very beginnings.
At long last, my patience had worn thin. I couldn’t remember the name of any of the characters in the movie anymore, and I was acutely aware of the people behind us who must have suffered my head looming and ducking in their view of the screen three times already. I would not be suckered again. I was fully prepared for the next fake call of nature.
“Poo-poo,” came the little whisper and its accompaniment, the tug on the sleeve. (By now she had probably associated “poo-poo” with going for a stroll - perhaps she had some canine qualities?) I ignored her. “Mommy, poo-poo.” More ignoring. “MOMMY! Poo-poo.” I shushed the Creature. But I saw that this would not work for long, so I put my finger lengthwise in her mouth. She bit…rather hard. I tried to free my finger, but she was now exhibiting other, more disturbing, canine qualities. Finally, in desperation, I had to squeeze her cheeks in order to retract my finger. As soon as my finger was out and her mouth was free, she bellowed all over the theater, “SQUEEZING MY FACE?!”
I rushed out with the Creature, incredibly embarrassed and fearful of any social workers who might have been inside. We waited outside for the remainder of the movie, where we have largely remained as long as there is a toddler in tow.
So, what did we do on that Father’s Day? We enjoyed a hodge-podge of a lunch and a movie at home with the older four kids while the two youngest enjoyed themselves, leaping unsupervised off the sofas and chasing each other all about the house. Now, that’s the kind of entertainment no amount of money can buy.
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