Heffalumps and Woozles

The Hundred Acre Wood was a second home.  When I was a child its inhabitants were my friends.  I made jokes and told stories about them; still as an adult, I attribute their characteristics to people I know (as in, "don't be such an Eeyore", or "Your bouncing is going to get you into trouble, Tigger")  some of my favorite sayings in life came from the pages of its book..."It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like 'What about lunch?'", and , "This writing business. Pencils and what-not. Over-rated, if you ask me. Silly stuff. Nothing in it."

When I was a girl, I had an eight-track tape with the entire works of AA Milne recorded and narrated.  I listened to it for hours on end, as I read along with my hard-back, illustrated copies of the very books being narrated.  At the time, it was a modern marvel.  I think that's actually how I learned to read, come to think of it.  I loved the sound of Tigger's bouncing, of Eeyore's melancholy, or Kanga's sweet mothering... they all had something most admirable in their character.  Even Rabbit, my least favorite friend, was loved for his hard work ethic and his organizational skills.  I believe I actually learned life lessons there, in the Hundred Acre Wood.

My copy of my beloved book is, as you can imagine, threadbare and love-worn.  It has dog-eared pages and childish ink drawings on the cover.  It has held a special place on the shelf as an "heirloom", too fragile to enjoy any longer.  Occasionally I'd dust it off and carefully open to the watercolor illustrations and hear the voices of my friends jump out of the pages at me, but I'd just as carefully put it back again, with a loving touch, like an invalid tucked into bed.

Last month we were shopping at a a discount used book store and my husband and I lingered over the "antique" books while waiting for the kids to finish their shopping.  He pulled a book off the shelf and opened it, the cover crackling in the unmistakeable sound of newness.  He said, "Look at this."  I was already looking at an old copy of Pride and Predjudice, and wasn't realy interested in a new book - what was it doing in antiques anyway - but looked, just to be polite (Pooh taught me that.)  You already know... it was an original copy of the Hundred Acre Wood, my copy, full of voices and bright, fresh, watercolored illustrations, and ink drawings.  Not in a childish hand.

I felt like I had just found a long-lost friend I didn't even realize I was missing.  I laughed out loud, and wanted to cry.  My dear husband bought that book and brought it home, and now I once again have the wonders of the stories and friends of the woods to keep me company.  And I can finally share them with my children.  They can learn that a bedtime snack is really just "a little something" and that "If you want to make a song more hummy, add a few tiddely poms", and most importantly, "A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference."

"The King's stinking son fired me, and thank you so much for bringing up such a painful subject. While you're at it, why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it? We're closed."

A dear friend of mine posted on her facebook that her sweet little daughter went to church and wrote her a precious, touching letter as part of her Primary lesson on families.  " Dear Mom, I love you for turning on the tv for me."  Ouch. 

I went to bed yesterday after church with a sinus headache.  In pain, I might add, thus the use of the word, "-ache".  I slept for about an hour, came downstairs still groggy and bleary-eyed, and my dearest, nearly twelve year-old daughter said, "you ALWAYS have a headache.  You ALWAYS sleep during the day." (EXCUSE ME?) "You NEVER play with me." Hmmm...  I reflected a minute and tried to clear my head - I've heard this story before from my children during allergy season when I really do spend a lot of time not feeling well - and wondered where this was coming from.  I had spent all day Saturday with her, had taken her shopping, had taken her to Sonic, had bought her the pattern and fabric for the new messenger bag she wanted to make for school.  (This partly out of guilt over Aunt Melisa being the first to sew with her and not me, too.)  Saturday had been a day of Hannah, just like when she was a little girl, all hers - Julia hadn't even wanted to come with us, so she had been the center of my attention for hours.

After asking her what she really wanted, and finding out she wanted me to sew with her RIGHT THEN, and telling her, no, I was not going to sew with her right then, that I had other things I needed to do and she could hang out in the kitchen with me and make cookies if she wanted while I worked on my other stuff, I decided that in our jobs, all mothers are just a paper cut waiting for lemon juice to be poured right on.

When I was a teen, I shamelessly accused my mother of not paying enough attention to me as a child, practically accusing her of not loving me.  She patiently explained I had required "holding" (as in "hold-me") for years, at least until I was 4 or 5 and that was part of why I felt angry and abandoned when Aunt Mel came along.  I don't even remember feeling angry and abandoned (I do remember running away after they brought her home - that story another time) I just remember thinking mom didn't love me.  She gave everything.  But didn't love me enough?  Aye yi yi.  So Hannah, and Julia - my "hold me" child, and likely Grayson and Emory, and maybe every child out there, believes their mother never feels well enough or doesn't play enough or always has a headache or doesn't have enough time or is just really good at turning on the tv.  Ouch.