I ordered Toy Story from the library several months ago — when Simon started wearing underpants and wondering about whose pictures were on his bum — and it finally came in this week. Since the boy was a model child throughout the morning, I let him watch it when he woke up from his nap. And, oh my goodness, you would think the boy had never laughed before and had to get it all out at once. Every line brought a round of maniacal laughter, followed by a repetition of the line, followed by more laughter — while jumping on the couch, running laps around the rug, and generally making a nuisance of himself. I loved it and it made me sad.
I’m happy, of course, that he enjoyed it so much and that he seems to have a decent sense of humor, but sad (a little) that he is actually old enough to get the jokes and gags. I’ve been seeing it coming for a while. His language is fairly understandable, he can clean his room and read and write (a little) and dress himself and use the toilet (most of the time), but the somewhat advanced sense of humor really got me. He’s still little, but he’s getting bigger, older, more mature.
I’ve been looking forward to this, to being able to sit down and enjoy a movie with him, instead of just next to him. But it’s sad to see the little boy who couldn’t say his name become a thing of the past. And I know I’m not the only one. People at church have told me that they are sad to see him grow up as well. The worst part is knowing that I’ll be going through this several times a year for the rest of my life, probably. I’ll be bemoaning the fact that my little boy is all grown up right up until I’m 97 and about to die and he’s 74 and bouncing his first great-grandchild on his knee.