In search of a plot

“I need a plot! What if I die?” this is the text I received Thanksgiving night from my 12 year old son, Levi. He’d finally left the table and was worriedly texting me from the next room.

It all happened because we were enjoying some post repast conversation at my mom’s house. One of the guests, a long time family friend, works at the Jewish cemetery in town. The discourse had shifted to her work and she was astounding us with stories about elderly people who simply refused to contemplate death, funerals and anything associated with burials. My brother-in-law, an uber-responsible physician, chimed in, “It’s just idiotic not to take care of these things ahead of time. Idiotic and irresponsible.”

Suddenly I look across the table and I see Levi, his head in his hands, prone for an anxiety attack. “Why don’t you go play with your cousins,” I suggest.

“No, mom. I want to stay with the adults,” he insists.

“Well, are you sure you can handle this conversation?” I ask gently.

“Yes,” he replies, “I’m sure. But mom, how much is a plot? Because I need to save up and get one.”

Conversation halted and everyone looked at Levi. Several of the adults started to roar with laughter.

“Levi,” I tried to explain, “You really don’t need to worry about that right now.”

“But I’m going to die,” he matter-of-factly refuted, “I don’t want to be stupid, or irresponsible.”

Suddenly I was transported into the celluloid world of my all time favorite Woody Allen movie, “Annie Hall.” I morphed into Alivie Singer’s kvetching Jewish mother and insisted my 9 year old son, Alivie, tell the psychiatrist why he was so depressed.”

Alvie’s mother:
Tell the Doctor why you’re depressed, Alvie. It’s something that he read.

Alvie:
The Universe is expanding.

Doctor:
The Universe is expanding?

Alvie:
Well, the Universe is everything, and if it’s expanding, someday it will break apart and that would be the end of everything.

Alvie’s mother:
He stopped doing his homework.

Alvie:
What’s the point?

Alvie’s mother: What has the Universe got to do with it? You’re here in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is not expanding!”

Doctor:
It wont be expanding for billions of years, Alvie. And we’ve gotta try to enjoy ourselves while we’re here.

Why is it that some kids burden themselves with thoughts like these while others are content to stuff themselves silly with turkey, corn and mashed potatoes? I so want to be one of those care-free people who raises easy, playful youngsters who throw spitballs into the unsuspecting heads of classmates and giggle gleefully when the teacher accidentally strings together words like “under” and “where.” But alas, that’s just not who we are.

I actually remember my first 100% sleepless night. I was about my son’s age and was convinced that the angel of death was coming that very night to take me away. My poor father tried everything to get me to go to sleep. Finally, with a tear in his eye, he implored, “Please, Debbie, just close your eyes. I’ll stand guard all night and I promise not to open the door if he comes. Just go to sleep!”

I guess the sad thing here is that this whole experience just confirms what I’ve known all along; that children really are just mirrors that showcase every flaw, fault and foible of our own misguided psyches. Genetics, my friends, are inescapable.

It’s all kind of depressing. In fact, sometimes I find it so disheartening that I relate completely to Annie Hall’s brother, Duane, (played eerily by a young Christopher Walken), who behind the wheel of his automobile,
confesses to Alvie while speeding down a darkened freeway, “Sometimes I have a sudden impulse to turn the wheel quickly, head-on into an oncoming car. I anticipate the explosion, the sound of shattering glass, the…flames rising out of the flowing gasoline.”

Alvie is stumped for a reply but spits out, “Right,” just as they pull to a stop, “Well, I have to — I have to go now, Duane, because I’m due back on the planet earth.”

Sometimes it sucks to be me. I desperately want to see myself as Audrie Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” or Meryl Streep in “Out of Africa.” But no matter how hard I try, my true alter ego wont let me forget that I’m really just a female version of a Jewish, neurotic, anxiety-ridden Alvie Singer.

Deathly Hallows II or Hundred Acres?

They say the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior, all the while expecting a different outcome. Argh. When will I learn?

My youngest son, Eli, who is now 7, had a serious cinematic phobia until about a year ago. We had finally conquered his fear of flicks on TV and the mini-dvd player. As long as he could run out of the room during the opening credits, he could usually manage to sit through a whole movie. Of course the film itself had to be entirely happy and without a shred of violence, fighting or insurmountable obstacles for the hero of the story. But walk him into a Harkins or United Artist’s and he went berserk. The last movie I tried taking him to was Toy Story 3 over a year ago. As soon as it started to look bleak for Woody, he freaked and we were out of there in a flash. So my 10 year old son, Levi, is totally into Harry Potter. He read all the books and has seen all the movies. Eli has also watched most of the movies at home with his dad and brother.

So when “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II” came out last week, we made a family date to go to the Cine Capri and watch the film. Both boys were super excited. I tried to prime Eli that it might be scary, hoping that maybe he’d opt out before I had to plink down 7 bucks and swelter alfresco in a long line of muggles outside the theatre. But he was insistent. He was a big boy and he wanted to go.

Once we finally got into the theatre, settled into our reclining seats, and dove into our healthy fruit salads that I’d smuggled past the ticket-taking teen in the lobby, the previews began. Now I have issues with previews to begin with. They tell the whole story and ruin the movie. They last too long. They’re often violent and inappropriate for kids, even in G an PG rated movies. They’re too friggin’ loud. I could go on. But it’s sort of beside the point. Anyway, we made it through a slew of gory “coming soons” and Eli, who was snuggled into his daddy, looked like he might be losing his resolve.

“We don’t have to stay, sweetie,” I said secretly hoping he’d “man-up” and tough this one out. OK, I admit it. I wanted to see the silly picture. “I’m not leaving,” he said with a slightly annoyed lilt. Then he sunk back into his dad’s shoulder, half covering his eyes with his still small hand that reminded me, bravado aside, he was still just a sweet, scared little boy.

The movie started, the music roared, and the dark energy enveloped us. “I do want to leave!” He screamed grabbing my hand and yanking me out of my chair. “Please! Take me home! I don’t want to see this, mommy!”

I gathered our stuff and we exited in one fluid movement within milliseconds. Safely ensconsed in the lobby, I suggested we stop and see if there was another movie he might enjoy watching while we waited two and a half hours for his dad and brother to come out. He adamantly refused. “Shit,” I thought, “The phobia is back with a vengeance.” I persuaded him though, and we paused at guest services where they happily exchanged our tickets for tickets to the new Winnie the Pooh movie.

Eli reluctantly agreed to watch Winnie with me. But once inside the theatre, Eli’s entire persona shifted. He was joyful, open and giggling at each and every cartoon preview. He gleefully watched Piglet, Rabbit and Pooh as they formed a posse to locate Christopher Robin who’d been stolen by a treacherous “Backson.” Watching his eyes sparkle and his wide grin filled me with happiness. “He loves this,” I thought to myself. Why did I even suggest Harry Potter as a family outing? This is who he is. This is what he loves. He’s still unbelievably sweet, gentle and naive, even though he tries incredibly hard to seem otherwise. Why do I keep forgetting this?

So we watched a delightful little film, with no real villains, no dangerous chase scenes, and no dead family members. And it was really, really nice. Just me and my little boy. Oh Eli, I don’t need you to grow up so quickly. I’m sorry that I keep being fooled by your big boy facade. You’re still my little man and I will try harder to remember that.

The “Backson” btw, was Pooh’s misunderstanding of Christopher Robin’s note that he’d be “back soon.” Oh, I’m so sorry. I just totally spoiled the ending for you.

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The good, the bad and the ugly

No more cellulose heightened realities for us!

Okay, I’m never going to the movies with my kids again. It’s always a friggin disaster and I never seem to learn my lesson.

My 6 year old son, Eli, begged me to take him to see Toy Story 3 (or whatever number the new one is). I remembered the horrible scene in the theatre at Karate Kid 4 (or whatever that new one was) when the main guy got chased by a bunch of really mean kids. Then I flashed back to the trauma of “Up” that depressing “kid” flick where the old man mourned the death of his wife in the most lugubrious montage I’ve ever seen on screen. Rationally I knew that going to the movies was not a good idea. But, what is it they say is the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? That would be me.

So in spite of the warning bells clamoring in my head, I decided to take the boys to see Toy Story 3. The first time things didn’t go just right for Woody, all hell broke loose. My youngest son is simply not able to differentiate reality from make-believe. Yikes, isn’t that the definition of psychosis?

Anyway, at the first sign of trouble, my boy becomes wild with emotion. “Noooooo!!!!!! He start shrieking, “Get me out of here. I hate this movie. Oh God, noooooo….Woody!!!” Okay, seriously, I’m like , “Eli, come on, cut it out. Woody’s gonna be fine. He really is. I promise.”

“Noooooo,” he continues to cry at a decibel louder than the movie roar. “I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.”

Now Eli is a tall 6 year old. He looks like he’s at least 7 or 8. So the people around us are more than a little perturbed. I mean, why is a youngster that age behaving like this. I murmer a few embarrassing I’m sorries and they reluctantly go back to the movie, probably assuming some diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder or sensory integration disfunction.

“Eli, we are not leaving. The movie just started and I promised your brother he could see it. You begged me to come to this film. I am telling you that Woody is going to make it and be just fine. You have to believe me.”

My reassurances did nothing to convince him of Woody’s certain well being. He screamed incessantly throughout the movie. Sure I thought about taking him home. I thought about wandering the halls of the theatre. But you really can’t leave your other kid alone in a dark movie theatre and feel like you’re being a responsible parent. I mean, what do you say to make sure he’s okay? “Listen, Levi, if a strange man sits down next to you while I’m roaming the halls with your brother, just stand up, start screaming and run wildly out of the theatre.”

So we stayed. It was miserable. Eli sat on my lap, catatonic, while Levi tensely tried to relax and ignore the muffled cries. I wanted to kill myself. This is so not what going to the movies with your kids is supposed to be.

Eli remained petrified throughout the flick, I’ve finally begun to understand why. He’s got what we call the “Nudelman” negativity (NN). It comes from my mother’s side. It’s an innate negativity that causes all of the Nudelman descendants to automatically obsess about what isn’t working and to confidently assume the worst in every situation. In film world, as soon as the good guys run into trouble, the NN warns my son of impending disaster. He then goes berserk, convinced that all is lost and the future of his cellulose universe is doomed forever. No amount of convincing works to ease his misery.

I asked my husband, the pediatrician, if there was some kind of medication for this? “I mean, seriously,” I told him, “he doesn’t understand that bad things have to happen in movies in order for the hero to become the hero. What is wrong with him?”

“Well, first of all, “ my husband began to explain in an annoyingly calm doctor voice, “it’s very normal for children at this age to have difficulty distinguishing reality from fantasy. The movie world can seem completely real to a 6 year old and that can be really scary. Plus you have to factor into the mix that his mother is a total wacko who can’t see movies herself because she gets too involved in them and then can’t function for days afterwards.”

What are you talking about?” I asked indignantly. “I see movies all the time.” “Yeah,” he said, “just the ones I pre-screen for you.” He then went on to list a few of the films we had seen that had sent me into so deep a state of devastation he had to lock up all the prescription medications in the house.

“Remember how you reacted at ‘Forest Gump’? What about ‘Lion King’, when the father died? ‘Pretty Woman’?” he was beginning to piss me off.

“Well, that was only because I thought they weren’t gonna end up together,” I said trying to sound as rational as possible.

“Okay,” he went on, “How about ‘Revolutionary Road,’ that movie about the nice suburban couple?”

“Honey,” I lamented, “I could relate to that movie. She had issues. And she killed herself in the end. That was not an uplifting film.” He went on to site some obvious selections like “Sophie’s Choice,” “Shindler’s List”, “No Country for Old Men.” I stopped trying to defend myself though when he reminded me about how I began to hyperventilate when Yoda died in “Return of the Jedi.” Then he asked me, “Have you ever wondered why that doesn’t happen anymore?”

“No,” I said. “Not until right now.”

“Because I see every movie you want to see first without you.” he confessed.

“You’re joking,” I laughed.

“No, I’m afraid I’m not. And you know those movies I told you we couldn’t get on Netflix. I was lying. I just don’t have the strength to watch you disintegrate after watching them.”

I was stunned and horrified. Could this be true? Was I living in some kind of Tipper Gore world of censorship without even knowing it. I wanted to race out and watch “Seven Pounds,” or “The boy in Striped Pajamas.” But then I realized how much happier I’d been these past few years seeing flicks like “Little Miss Sunshine,” and “The Full Monty.”

Maybe that was it. I needed to screen the movies I take Eli to beforehand. But every kid movie has a villain. Every kid movie has scary obstacles that impede the hero. Every kid movie has one or two dead parents. No. Screening alone cannot protect my young one from the fears inside his hereditarily psychotic brain.

The only answer is a movie moratorium. I’m done with the whole scene (pun intended). No more movie theatres, no more buttered popcorn, no more Screenvision trivia facts, and no more reciting classic movie lines like “Use the Force,” and “Go ahead, make my day.” I want to erase the entire film industry from our psyches. And if you think that’s the coward’s way out, “Frankly, my friends, I don’t give a damn.”