Took the kids to see Toy Story 3 tonight.
My daughter, age 6 1/2, liked the movie, but didn’t love it.
My son loved it, but he’s only 3. He loves everything on a screen.
I loved it. Loved it, loved it, loved it. Embarrassing as this is, I cried like a friggin’ infant over the last 15 minutes. At the risk of spoiling the film for all (stop reading here if you don’t want to know), the movie ends with Andy heading off for college. He gives away all his toys to a little girl, probably 4- or 5-years old. With all his stuff packed and ready to go, he kneels down with the girl and introduces all his toys from yesteryear. Then they play, and he is reverted to his boyhood, where innocence and joy reigned, and toys brought true pleasure. At the end, he gets into his car. The girl is standing there, holding Woody and Buzz. He looks out the window and says, “Thanks, guys.”
I wasn’t just crying. I was bawling. Tears streaming. I was never this way pre-kids, but now I see my own growing up, moving past certain toys, outgrowing shirts and skirts and shoes. It can take seemingly forever to put my tots to bed, yet in the blink of an eye a year passes … two years pass … three years. It brings me great joy, and simultaneously great sadness. I want their childhoods to stretch, not sprint.
Anyhow, it’s a fantastic film, one worth seeing whether you have 10 kids or no kids.
