Damn you Pooh; you warm, fuzzy bear of cold, hard truth

My parents didn’t read Winnie-the-Pooh stories to me as a kid. It’s not that they didn’t read to me, the Pooh collection just didn’t make it to the list. It’s okay; I grew up and became a relatively well adjusted adult without ever spending any imaginary time with Christopher Robin and crew. Until recently.

Katy and I got the whole collection of original stories in one book for a shower gift. Since Miles was born, I’ve had the privilege of reading this collection to him. Kind of a nice first to share together.

Honestly, my fondness for the author and story started pretty lukewarm. After reading the first chapter my initial thought was: ‘Hallo! Hate to bother! But who let this pass without hiring an editor to help you express a concise thought every once in awhile? Geesh.’

Upon reflection, I think most of my frustration stemmed from not reading a book out loud since story time in Mr. Beck’s 6th grade class.

It was harder than I remembered; especially when captain run-on hits you with a five line sentence full of Old English phrases and made up words. I’m no grammar Nazi, but on a couple occasions I was so out of breath I started to see spots.

However, after I stumbled through the first couple of chapters, it got better. Much better actually.

I became fond of the phrases, Pooh’s poems and the characters’ come-as-you-are eccentricities. I actually took pride in being able to rattle off paragraphs (written as single sentences) full of confusing statements, purposeful misspellings and round-about logic.

Mostly I fell in love with getting swept away in the naivety, innocence and wonderment of youth captured so well by the author, told through stories of a little boy and his motley crew of stuffed animal friends.

But just when I couldn’t wait for another ridiculous adventure to unfold the final chapter hit me like a ton of bricks. Funny now to look back at how naïve of me it was to think that a little boy could lead a crew consisting of an Owl, Piglet, Tigger, Bear of Little Brain,…, on “expeditions” forever.

As the last chapter went on, it finally dawned on me Little Christopher Robin was growing up and putting away his stuffed animals for good. And, as I looked down at my soon to be one-year-old son, the story of this little boy growing just a little bit older became very hard for me to read out loud again.

Thanks Pooh. While reality can sometimes be a bother, I know I’ll cherish sharing the stories more and more every time through.