In an attempt to avoid watching “that racecar movie that shall remain nameless” for the 132nd time, last Thursday evening I introduced my son to “Toy Story.” I had apparently forgotten the parts that I, even as an adult, found darkly disturbing.  When we got to the surreal scene of the dismembered and bizarrely reassembled toys (which were highly reminiscent of my son’s artistic namesake), Harry turned to me, wide eyed, and said “No more movie, Mama.”  I hugged him close and told him not to be afraid, and we finished the movie together.  Kiddie horror.  Great.

Last night, with my husband at choir practice, Harry and I had our regular movie night.  Harry asked again for the “racecar movie,”  but as we were flipping through the disk changer, we came across “Toy Story” again, and Harry asked me to stop.

“The Toy Movie!” he said excitedly, and we cued it up.  We sat together on the couch, side by side, drinking chocolate milk, singing “You’ve got a Friend in Me,” and settling once again into a story of childhood innocence and enduring friendship.

It was so sweet, my teeth hurt in time with my heart.