My parents were nice enough to come to Livingston for my birthday over the weekend, and besides bringing me a gorgeous, fudge-a-riffic turtle cake and taking me to dinner, they also watched Connery on Saturday night so that Chip and I could go out. We chose to follow the stampeding herd to Harry Potter, and the movie did not disappoint. Order of the Phoenix was my least favorite of the books, but I think the movie did a good job of cutting out the teenage angsty bits that wore on my nerves.
And speaking of wearing on my nerves, I can't remember the last time I was so annoyed in a movie theater. Oh, that's right, it was the LAST Harry Potter film, the one where the entire last 20 minutes takes place in a graveyard and the hero has his vein cut open and one of the young characters is killed. You remember, that 157-minute, PG-13 kids' movie. We saw it at the local Livingston theater, and the presence of a family of--roughly--27, who had chosen to bring all 25 kids, including the teeny tiny ones who were scared shitless during the last 20 minutes, didn't exactly make for a satisfying movie-going experience. One of the poor little girls was whimpering the whole time about how terrified she was, but Mom and Dad couldn't be bothered to help her out.
On Saturday, we chose a Bozeman show, and it was packed. Alas, many people had remembered their cell phones and forgotten their manners. In our row alone, we had someone take a call with full ring as well as having a woman get up in the middle of the climatic scene, shuffle her butt past our faces, and go to the lobby to procure another giant bucket of popcorn. As if one of those wasn't enough to make you a little sick to your stomach.
There were also assorted too-young kids who wanted the running commentary about what was going on, but they paled in comparison to the tiny, sickly baby who spent the entire movie mewling weakly and coughing. For the love of Pete, people. Babies? Don't belong at movies. Any movies. Sick babies? Belong even less. Take your baby home, suck out her little nose, and put her to bed. And then watch a video. Because I've got news for you. PG-13 does not mean 13 days. It means 13 years.
Becoming a parent doesn't mean you never get to do anything ever again. But it means that, for a while, you have to curtail things. If you're lucky enough to have grandparents or other helpful relatives nearby--or a trust fund to pay for babysitters--you might have a little more freedom. Chip and I used to go to a lot of movies, but we don't any more. That's the cost of parenting, and I don't have a problem paying it. When we do get to go out, it's a big deal and I want to enjoy it. When I'm mentally strangling some asshat for child neglect, it tends to...how do the French say it?...diminish my goddamn enjoyment.
Still, I am also not someone who believes that children should only be taken to Disney movies and McDonald's until they hit puberty. People who glare at you just because you have kids--even when they are well behaved--are just as annoying as the ones who take too-young kids everywhere. Kids have to learn how to behave in restaurants and at spectator events. The key is that you always have to be willing to leave, and fast. The one truly bad meltdown we ever had at a "nice" restaurant resulted in my leaving the restaurant with Connery within seconds of its beginning. Chip asked the server to box up our food, he paid the bill and met us in the car, and we left. (Although he failed to have her box up my goat cheese salad. Bygones.) I am damn sure not going to ruin someone else's enjoyment of a nice meal.
Rant off.