Upon arriving here last Friday, one of the first things my brand-new DIL asked about was the Pooh Bear. The forlorn and well-worn childhood friend of my son. A few months back I told her about the Pooh-and-a-half joke that Paul told when he was but a wee child of two-and-a-half.
Now, Pooh was a homemade bear, AND a hand-me-down bear from a friend. He has survived several washings, all the tears and snot of childhood, and a stuffed-toy massacre by a crazed hound dog, although he did lose most of his facial features in the incident still referred to as, The Stuffing Stalker.
But he's been simply, "Pooh Bear" all these years, mostly living in a dark sack filled with a few other childhood companion critters, waiting for such a day, such an occasion, as a magical, new Christmas for the newlyweds.
Pooh Bear had to be remonstrated once by Paul, to keep his paws off of his new bride. Pooh had never had egg nog before, so was being more than a bit silly and flirty. There were words. Pooh went into a besotted rage and disappeared for a while. We soon forgot about him.
So imagine our surprise, after a wonderful Sunday of family and fun, to go downstairs Monday morning only to find Pooh all blotto, passed out with his eyes open and the television set on the Bravo channel! There were pages of that damn triangle puzzle all around on the floor, pencils, erasers, an empty egg nog container, precious little rum, and no more chocolate vodka to be found.
So go the ways of childhood magic and innocence. Hopefully he'll get his act together before any grandkids arrive, but I'm not so sure we can trust him anymore. He stayed behind with us, sulking and refusing to be civil or bid a fond adieu before Paul and his bride returned to Charleston.
I'm sure they'll patch it up next visit, but for now, it's back into the sack in the garage for Pooh.