I hate Winnie the Pooh.
My husband, Tony, is to blame for the ill-will.
Tony is many a splendid thing; hard-working, loyal, loving, dependable, pragmatic, an unbelievable handy-man, witty. However, he has never been considered a sentimental fool nor a natural born romantic.
Therefore, when I was pregnant with our first and only child, I was fairly shocked when he stated that he thought it would be sweet for our daughter to use his Winnie the Pooh crib.
It was a fine crib – in 1977.
Furthermore, I had a fairly detailed plan in mind for how I planned to decorate the nursery. Winnie the Pooh did not make even the initial cut of decorations or themes. So, I took out my veto pen on the crib. I figured that since Tony had unceremoniously axed 99% of the names that I had proposed, then I could veto a 31 year old crib (aka death trap) with little fall out. And, given my controlling tendencies, I was fairly certain that he was just messing with me about the crib.
I was wrong.
When we were registering for all the baby gear, Tony spotted a Winnie the Pooh bedding set. It frightened me. He held it aloft and said, “Since we are not using my crib, I think that we should get this bedding.”
I thought he was kidding.
I was wrong.
Before I could stop giggling, my normally laid back and calm better half, bombarded me with rapid fire questions: “Why is the bedding I want not even a consideration? Why do you get to make all the decisions for our baby? What happened to compromise?”
I was standing in the middle of Babies R Us, my agape mouth almost touching my protruding belly, and tried to figure out when exactly my husband’s body had been snatched, when he groaned and pivoted with military precision.
That is when he spotted his pièce de résistance, a baby Bugs Bunny lamp and said, “I know one thing for sure! We are getting that lamp!”
“That Bugs Bunny lamp? You have lost your damn mind, Tony Lewis.”
This is when the whisper yelling begins in earnest, “You don’t even want her to be a kid! You just want her to be a miniature adult – a miniature you!”
I was struck mute as I had to use all of my energy to not cry in the nursery section of Babies R Us. Although I was sure it was not the first time a pregnant woman and burst into tears in that particular retail establishment, I could not take the pity of strangers on top of dealing with my husband’s apparent mental collapse.
Once I was certain that I was not going to melt into a salty puddle of tears, I shot back through clenched teeth, “When did you become an interior designer? You have NEVER cared about any kind of decor. Why now?”
“She is my daughter too!”
“I am very well aware that she is your daughter too; I was there when she was made!”
“Why do you always get to have the say?”
“I don’t always get to have the say, but I am the only one who truly cares about what her bedding looks like. If she ends up loving trout fishing I promise that I will not offer one damn opinion on what type of lures she is to use! And, the better question is: Why are you yelling at your pregnant wife in Babies R Us?”
He said, “I don’t appreciate being criticized in public.”
I was over him in the way that only a six month pregnant woman can be over the person responsible for impregnating her can be and let fly with, “If you love Winnie the Pooh so g**damn much, why don’t we stop by a tattoo parlor and you can get a back piece dedicated to the love of your life…maybe even have them throw in Eeyore?! And, then you never have to be apart!”
At this, we both started laughing. We laughed until we cried. And, Tony returned to the sweet, laid-back man that I have loved for as long as I can remember and I assumed my role as the crazed, neurotic one. I don’t like when our roles flip.
We’ve definitely had our fair share of disagreements since the infamous Babies R Us Come to Jesus of 2009, but there is no one I would rather raise my daughter and go through life with than Winnie the Pooh’s number one fan.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
