We dropped The Daughters off with the
sitter. At ages 10 and 8, there was no way this movie any kind of
appropriate for them. They are both avid and above-average readers,
but I wouldn't even think of letting them read the books at their
age. In a few years, depending on their maturity levels, I would let
them tackle the angst that Katniss and Peeta face as they run
toward their imminent death arm-in-arm. But certainly not now.
We were almost first in line and, I'm
not proud to admit, we almost knocked down a middle-aged woman on
crutches to get good seats in the theater. Eventually the seats were
all taken; the lights lowered and the little voices started.
Not the voices in my head this time.
The little voices belonged to the little people – children –
who had been brought to PG-13 movie. These little voices belonged to
children who appeared to be between the ages of three and ten.
Before the movie started a young momma got up and walked the aisles
shushing and swaying her infant.
Understand, I'm not persnickety. I
don't mind having children in the movies. I've taken my kids to
movies, and I know for a fact that my children have, on more than one
occasion, ruined someone's theater experience. I'm thinking
specifically of the time my younger daughter loudly passed gas in a
during a very moving scene of Soul Surfer. My motto with
kids in public places is judge not lest I be judged right in
Human Services office.
As a parent, however, I was anxious
for those little brains and eyes in that particular theater watching
that particular movie. I was just as excited to see the movie as
anyone else. I had read the books years before. I had almost cried
tears of joy when the movie was announced. I had counted down days
on my calendar until opening day. I was ready. I get the excitement
that came with the movie.
But, I also arranged for a sitter.
If the sitter had fallen through, The
Dad and I would have postponed our movie date. We wouldn't have
liked it, but we would have done it. It's part of being a parent:
Sacrificing what we want at the time we want it in order to best care
for our children. This could very well be the very definition of parenting.
There was no nudity. The language was
extremely mild, especially by today's standards. But the subject
matter was nothing short of intense. I'll admit that The Dad cried
during several scenes. (And maybe I did too.)
I also – knowing it was fiction,
knowing it wasn't really happening, knowing how the entire series
ends – still had nightmares. I hope those kids were not able to
fully comprehend what was happening on the screen. I hope they were
able to fall asleep before the reaping and wake as the closing
credits rolled . (I know they didn't, though, because they asked
questions through the entire show!) I also hope that when Catching
Fire comes to the big screen that those same kids find themselves
at home with the sitter eating frozen pizza rolls and watching
Spongebob.
