Last night Shawn and I watched The March of the Penguins. This was not a wise thing to do. Don't get me wrong. It was a wonderful film, but emperor penguins, as it turns out, don't have the easiest of lives and this movie is not for the faint of heart.
As a bit of insight into my prenatal emotional state, last week I completely lost it during a Garfield cartoon where the dog catcher takes Odie to the pound. So then watching penguins try to raise their young through blizzards on Antarctica may not have been the best choice.
As the starving father penguins balanced their chicks on their feet so they wouldn't touch the ice and freeze to death, I sat on the couch with tears running down my face, holding a forkful of my dinner out toward the TV screen. "Here! You need this more than me!"
I remember once checking out some penguins at a visiting exhibit at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and thinking, "Gee, it's warm here. I wonder if they miss their home." Doubtful. Extremely doubtful.
If you can handle the crueler side of Mother Nature, I do recommend the film. If like me, you're currently incubating a chick of your own, go back to Garfield. It may occasionally tug at your heart strings, but at least you know Odie's going to make it home okay in the end.