I have a confession to make.
I cry at movies. In high school, my friends sobbed at movies like Roller Boogie (the one where Linda Blair plays the flute and finds true love on roller skates). I sat, dry-eyed, willing myself not to mock their emotions -- and never quite succeeding.
I watched The Ghost and Mrs. Muir shortly after my wedding, and burst into tears at the end. But I sensed I'd been overly affected by my honeymoon. Or, maybe, just the wedding bills.
Motherhood brought an end to my emotional stoicism. First, I cried at Hallmark commercials. Then, at Fourth of July parades. Finally, I began crying at the end of children's movies. Animated , live-action , it didn't matter. When the end credits rolled, I'd have to pretend to hunt through my purse for my car keys or sneak off to the restroom. I emoted in private.
Soon, I cried in the middle of movies. Then, during the opening montage.
I blamed some dread disease, or early menopause. Maybe I had finally gone over the edge into some dark abyss. (Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most.)
I finally came up with a plan. I would see only action-packed, "Save the Universe" movies. No more little doe-eyed chipmunks cavorting through the woods for me. If it didn't have evil villians and mad scientists, I would stay home.
That's why I looked forward to the show today. I shall finally get through a movie without weeping. We wait for the start of Pokeyrats 103: The Movie, a tale of the antics of 103 lovable little creatures called Pokeyrats who continually garble their words while saving the world dressed as Dalmatians. As we count the minutes till showtime, my son stands backwards on the theater seat, throwing popcorn into the air and catching it in his mouth. His sister sorts through her collection of Pokeyrat cards, placing them in piles according "power-source": Earth, Wind, Water or Fire. She finishes her tally and looks around for something to do. She reaches over and jostles her brother's seat, causing him to tumble over the back and land in the lap of a dour matron who looks like she's just experienced wind-master Flatu-rat's Blast of Decay. I hastily remove my son, with apologies, and return him to his seat. My daughter cackles and digs her finger, up to the knuckle, into his thin little shoulder. He flings an elbow in her direction, making contact with her wrist and sending 62 Pokeyrat cards arcing into space.
As the cards drift floorward, led by Catta-Rat (Queen of the Eyes) and Bacca-Rat (King of Gamblers), the lights dim and the Coming Attractions roll.
My eyes water.
I see my son's hand snake into his sister's. I hear her whisper, "If you get scared, just squeeze and I'll protect you."
They clutch each other, mouths slightly open, eyes shining in the light of the silver screen.
The tears flow freely as I realize why I cry at children's movies.
For 90 minutes, my children are friends, bound together in a world of fantasy. No bickering, no teasing, no tantrums.
A miracle.
And, when God grants a miracle, tears are not only acceptable, they are required.
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