Toy Story, My Story

When’s the last time you had a good cry?

In honor of Father’s Day, my kids and I took my husband to see Toy Story 3. We entered the theater and, suddenly, a magical transformation took place: The lights dimmed, and we were no longer there, but back at our living room. We were a young family, again, huddled together on our big comfy couch, ready for movie time. What fun!

We were instructed to put on our 3-D glasses, and the featured film began to play. In this movie, Andy is a teenager getting ready to move out of the house and go to college. Like a sweet memory, short clips of a young Andy playing with his beloved toys appeared. An invisible fist began to squeeze my throat tightly.

Old clips of my own began to play on my mind’s eye, as if on a thick emotional fog:

Gracie as a 3-year-old sitting on her daddy’s lap while laughing at Rex, Mr. Potato Head, Slinky and Hamm’s hysterical lines, or squeezing Daddy’s big hand when Sid threatened to blow up more toys.

Ronnie sitting on our old, pink and gray couch in front of the TV at our little house in Kansas, sucking tirelessly on his binky, arms folded over his round belly and legs spread out on the seat, so short they barely reached the edge. He wouldn’t utter a sound or move a muscle, except during the funny parts, when he would pluck the well-worn pacifier with one hand and point with the other at the screen to say something only his big sister could decipher.

The movie played on, pulling me in and out of my reverie. I’d chuckle loudly here and there and would be ok for a while, until something flung me back to another day from the past. Like in the scene when a little boy runs across a Sunny Side Preschool’s classroom, while being chased by his classmates. He wore a blue cape and flapped his arms like a bird that was about to take flight.

The new scene that played in my mind featured me, as a young, frenzied mother. Two of my young kids were finally in school, but my youngest – Nick – was only a preschooler. The three-times-a week, two-and-a-half hour program didn’t give me much of a brake. In those early days, my neighbor Marlene and I took turns caring for our kids in order to give each other a brief but necessary respite.

One day in particular, I was trying to clean the kitchen. Nick and Ryan, my friend’s son, were four years old and were supposed to be playing in the family room. Except – as I suddenly realized with alarm – I hadn’t heard them lately. A youthful, high-pitch voice caused me to bolt toward the stairs.

“Ok, Ryan,” it said persuasively, “to infinity…!”

I reached the bottom of the stairway just in time. I saw Ryan standing on a stool (God only knows how and when they got it there), near a ledge that’s about 15-feet high, with a superman cape tied around his neck and arms spread out like Buzz Lightyear’s. Nick was standing right behind him. He had his king-for-a-day crown on, the one he got at Preschool for his fourth birthday. His right hand held a Star Wars lightsaber, poised against Ryan’s back, like Captain Crook’s sword on Wendy’s, pushing her to jump off the plank.

Aware that the wrong reaction would startle the daring pair, I forced my voice to sound calm and firmly said, “Don’t think that’s a good idea, boys.”

Mercifully, Ryan stepped down from the stool and away from certain death. Nick scurried in a hurry, looking for a place to hide away from me and from a similar fate (that is, certain death, but not by accident.)

Grace elbowed me. “You’re snoring, Mom!” she whispered forcefully, which startled me. I took a long gulp of soda, sat up, and told my sleepy self to focus on the story, which got my mind back on track and on the movie, where I wanted it to be.

No more trips down memory lane, please.

Randy Newman’s scores played on. The music was great; the scenes got funnier and funnier by the minute. The writers and animators are geniuses, I thought. I laughed with the audience and held my breath at the peak of suspense. How would the toys get out of this pickle? What would happen in the end?

What’s going to happen to my family now that my kids are turning into adults?

Andy appeared on the screen. He was a young man now, who needed to decide what to do with his toys before leaving for college. The tightness around my throat came back, but ten times stronger. My eyes burned. I was so grateful for the big Miami Vice-looking glasses on top of my nose. I furtively wiped the tears away. Didn’t want my kids to tell me, “Gosh, Mom, you always cry!” But there was little I could do to stop the flow.

Toy Story is a part of our family’s history; it is our story. Like Andy’s family, ours has moved, has added and lost a couple of good toys, has grown up, has had to say good-bye.

Fifteen years ago, I went to a movie theater to watch Toy Story 1 for the first time, grateful for a chance to enjoy an 80-minute breather. Like a young girl who bumps into a perfect stranger, one who’ll later become her life’s companion, I had watched the film unaware that it’d become a part of me and of my family.

We were so young back then (Nick hadn’t even been born.) We were so full of dreams… and so clueless.

And here we were, again, taken aback and by surprise by the same familiar characters. Unaware of the emotions this movie would stir, seeing our life story played out on the big screen, wondering how does time fly so quickly.

The movie ended and we left the building quietly.

Gracie broke the silence. “Man, that was a good movie!” she said as we walked through the parking lot. “I almost started crying when I saw Andy pack his stuff up… It was… it was just like me.”

“Yes, yes”, we all answered, shaking our heads very slowly. That was all we could manage. I wanted to touch my daughter’s arm and tell her how proud I am of her, but I really didn’t want to start crying again.

We got in the car, and Ronnie, who – like the first movie – is fifteen now, couldn’t help it anymore. He started bawling as if someone dear had just died. Gracie rubbed his arm, but didn’t say anything either.

“Oh, Ronnie”, I blurted, always the mom, trying to make things better, “I didn’t throw your Buzz and Woody dolls away. They are tucked safely on the shelf above your closet.”

“I know, I know,” he responded. “I’m just sad, Mom.”

“That movie was a tear-jerker, that’s for sure, Son,” Ron said, squinting a little bit.

Yes, it was. But I guess we all needed a good cry.