"This is what we refer to as," hiccup, sob, sniiiiiiifffff.
"Emotionally manipulative," I said as I tried to breathe, sob and speak at the same time.
The events leading up to this moment had began yesterday, when Wes came home from school and announced they were reading a book about the Titanic.
"Oh, I have that movie," I announced brightly.
As I recall, Titanic was PG-13, and not wholly inappropriate for an 8 year old. If I was correct, the PG-13 rating was given because of the boobie scene. I could easily fast forward through those and he would be none the wiser.
Wes is also not entirely unfamiliar with boobies, as I sometimes walk around the house without a shirt on. These instances are probably more disturbing than Kate Winslet's perfect boobies being drawn by a street artist (Leonardo DiCaprio).
I realized, however, as I made a tentative box search in our garage, that I either, a.) sold the movie at one of the many garage sales we had before we moved to Florida, or b.) packed it in a mismarked box and I was never ~ ever ~ going to find it.
As I napped this afternoon, however, my son discovered the movie entirely on his own.
Not in our garage, as I would have thought, but at our neighbor's garage sale. The VHS tapes were thrown into a box and marked as .25/each. Wes, in his tenacity (it was a big box), found both tapes and spent his own money to purchase them.
As Calvin was at the homecoming dance, we decided to watch "Titanic."
I honestly thought he would lose interest at the 45 minute mark when the boat still had not sunk and Kate Winslet had not yet taken off her shirt.
(I had my finger poised on the "fast forward" button waiting for the moment to happen.)
I realized, at about two and a half hours into it, why it was rated PG-13. It was a little disturbing to see a mother holding her baby, frozen and dead in the Atlantic.
I was shot, rapid-fire, 8-year-old questions: "Why was it named the Titanic," as well as, "Why are those people being mean," and "Why are those people being chased and shot at," in addition to, "Why are there not enough boats," and "Why is that mean man still alive?"
I sobbed in the end, because it had honestly been at least 8 years since I had seen the movie and I forgot how sad it really was. Wes found it (read: me) quite distressing. I feel a little guilty. Again, no mother of the year awards for me.
"Do you understand that she died," I asked, sobbing at the end when Rose enters the dining room and sees all of the people and children who had died before her, then ascends the staircase to join Jack Dawson.
A wide-eyed, alarmed look met my gaze. He shook his head slightly. "WTF is wrong with my mother," he was undoubtedly thinking to himself.
"That was her entering heaven," I tried to explain as he stared at me.
"It's okay, they made this story up," I said. Sort of, kind of, but not really.
He is asking to sleep in my bed. Excellent. I firmly believe if I hadn't cried so hard, it wouldn't have been such an unsettling experience.
"My reading teacher," he began, his voice turning up at the end as if asking a question. "Is sending home a permission slip this week," he continued, again his voice turning up. "Can you tell her I don't have to watch Titanic? I don't want to see it again, I don't think."
Since Chris is gone, perhaps I will just allow him to sleep in my room. The guilt, you know. I should have known, really, a movie about a boat that sinks and over a thousand people die?
Not such a great idea.