“When you see someone putting on his Big Boots, you can be pretty sure that an Adventure is going to happen.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
J. and I have been married for three years now and according to an increasing number of people, we’re supposed to start having kids. Preferably we’re supposed to already have one and be ready to pop out another.
This casual attitude towards our personal choices, from a few close friends and relations but mostly perfect strangers, gives me more angst and headaches than I can successfully convey, but that’s another post entirely. Needless to say, it gets me riled up. These talks, whether instigated by friends, family, or total strangers, leave me feeling very misunderstood, very talked-down-to, and very angry. J.’s aware of this and luckily he and I are on the same page when it come to the timing of such things.
So you can imagine the heights reached by my left eyebrow when glancing through all the treasure to be found in Cecil Court, J. suddenly froze, pointed to a shop’s (Marchpane) displayed wares and declared, “We need that for Stormageddon’s room.”
Stormaggedon being the nickname we use when discussing our future child.*
“Did I miss a very critical conversation?” I demanded.
“Look,” he insisted excitedly.
I looked, and beheld some original, hand colored prints from the 1926 first edition of Winnie-the-Pooh.
This tale only makes sense if you understand that J. loves Winnie-the-Pooh. It was his favorite character as a child, his favorite movies, you name it. My six foot, broad shouldered, grown man, all-American husband loves Pooh. And here were original prints from £15 a piece.
We bought three.
Stormageddon may be years off yet, but he is going to have a fabulous nursery when he shows up. Courtesy of his father.