Corey and I love to watch horror movies. We usually just laugh through them, pointing out the impossibilies, the absurdities, the ridiculous actions of the characters. Last night we took a trip down memory lane and rented Stephen King's "Pet Sematary" (yes I know cemetery is misspelled, but that is the spelling he uses). I have watched it several times in the past, however last night was the first time I have seen it since I became a mother. Let me warn you, the scene where the toddler is killed on the road by the speeding truck affects you in a horribly different way when you have a child who is the same age sleeping in the next room. Remember the tiny bloody shoe? I was barely holding it together, hands pressed against the sides of my face, mouth hanging open. Then when the funeral scene came a few minutes later, where the casket is knocked to the floor and the little hand is visible for just a few seconds, I burst into sobs. Total.basket.case. I can't explain it, and maybe it's foolish. But watching those two scenes now, as a mother, I just was slammed with a feeling of "what if" and "I can't imagine....". Those are awful, awful scenes.
Corey, of course, laughed at me.
I laughed too, later, when the toddler is brought back to life as a scalpel-wielding, neck-munching little giggler. However, I will never watch that movie again.