Farewell, Pooh
The baby gates are long gone. The booster seat is gathering dust in the basement. And I just folded my last Winnie the Pooh sheet.
After nearly seven years of familiarity, I solemnly packed away the classic Pooh sheets that each of my children slept on - first high in their cribs, then in low toddler beds. The sheets they must have stared at for hours waiting for sleep to come, the ones with simple E. H. Shepard sketches of Hundred Acre Wood residents playing together happily.
My son was stripped of his Pooh decor when his sister came. Now almost 4, she too has moved into a "big girl bed" that no longer warrants (or fits) her baby items. My boy's walls are covered in super heroes now, and my daughter has graduated to butterflies and flowers.
With a bit of sadness I didn't expect, I gently placed our A.A. Milne friends into a cardboard box. First the sheets. Then the best friends Pooh and Piglet artwork and embroidered wall hangings came down. Next into the box went the stuffed Pooh, Piglet, Tigger, and Eeyore who watched over both children from shelves in their rooms.
Other items fill those spots now, but without those dear faces there is something missing. It feels a little empty.
I grew up with the gang from Hundred Acre Wood, watching The New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh on Saturday mornings. The theme song from the show gives me a strange nostalgia for an itchy red-upholstered rocking chair, cinnamon-sugar toast, and the sweet simplicity of childhood.
I have a theory that all the best kids books are actually intended for adults, and these guys are no exception. For one, they're delightfully flawed in ways children probably don't appreciate: Pooh is a forgetful overeater, Piglet has debilitating anxiety, Eeyore is perpetually depressed, and Tigger struggles with ADHD. Secondly, like most beloved children's stories, they offer us truths that maybe adults wouldn't be able to stomach if they weren't couched in simple language and soft characters. Lessons that adults are forever trying to return to: accepting your friend for who he is (even if his tail keeps falling off), finding joy in everyday things like racing sticks in a stream or eating a yummy breakfast, and recognizing that there are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count.
Don't we all long for the wisdom of Winnie the Pooh?
With its muted, dreamy colors suited to a boy or a girl, I knew I wanted Classic Pooh decor long before my husband and I began trying for a baby. It ended up being a process that took 3-and-a-half years, three teams of doctors, and one generous stranger. After all we endured, receiving the comforter set at my son's baby shower made it real. Pooh and friends became symbolic of my hope for a family, and the realization of that dream.
That dream - or more accurately, dreams - came true. They laid their tiny heads on those sheets and stared up at Pooh with bleary eyes until their heads weren't so tiny and their eyes saw bigger things. It's time to move on with them, and that tastes bittersweet.
I'm packing away the decor, but keeping out all of the books in case we ever want to join a little boy and his bear at that enchanted place at the top of the forest, where they will always be playing.
After nearly seven years of familiarity, I solemnly packed away the classic Pooh sheets that each of my children slept on - first high in their cribs, then in low toddler beds. The sheets they must have stared at for hours waiting for sleep to come, the ones with simple E. H. Shepard sketches of Hundred Acre Wood residents playing together happily.
My son was stripped of his Pooh decor when his sister came. Now almost 4, she too has moved into a "big girl bed" that no longer warrants (or fits) her baby items. My boy's walls are covered in super heroes now, and my daughter has graduated to butterflies and flowers.
With a bit of sadness I didn't expect, I gently placed our A.A. Milne friends into a cardboard box. First the sheets. Then the best friends Pooh and Piglet artwork and embroidered wall hangings came down. Next into the box went the stuffed Pooh, Piglet, Tigger, and Eeyore who watched over both children from shelves in their rooms.
 |
| "How do you spell love?" asked Piglet. "You don't spell it, you feel it," said Pooh. |
Other items fill those spots now, but without those dear faces there is something missing. It feels a little empty.
I grew up with the gang from Hundred Acre Wood, watching The New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh on Saturday mornings. The theme song from the show gives me a strange nostalgia for an itchy red-upholstered rocking chair, cinnamon-sugar toast, and the sweet simplicity of childhood.
I have a theory that all the best kids books are actually intended for adults, and these guys are no exception. For one, they're delightfully flawed in ways children probably don't appreciate: Pooh is a forgetful overeater, Piglet has debilitating anxiety, Eeyore is perpetually depressed, and Tigger struggles with ADHD. Secondly, like most beloved children's stories, they offer us truths that maybe adults wouldn't be able to stomach if they weren't couched in simple language and soft characters. Lessons that adults are forever trying to return to: accepting your friend for who he is (even if his tail keeps falling off), finding joy in everyday things like racing sticks in a stream or eating a yummy breakfast, and recognizing that there are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count.
Don't we all long for the wisdom of Winnie the Pooh?
 |
| Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart. |
With its muted, dreamy colors suited to a boy or a girl, I knew I wanted Classic Pooh decor long before my husband and I began trying for a baby. It ended up being a process that took 3-and-a-half years, three teams of doctors, and one generous stranger. After all we endured, receiving the comforter set at my son's baby shower made it real. Pooh and friends became symbolic of my hope for a family, and the realization of that dream.
That dream - or more accurately, dreams - came true. They laid their tiny heads on those sheets and stared up at Pooh with bleary eyes until their heads weren't so tiny and their eyes saw bigger things. It's time to move on with them, and that tastes bittersweet.
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