We can't all, and some of us don't

I love Winnie the Pooh. In spite of the fact that most of the world, and for certain just about every American, only knows the silly old bear Disneyfied and overmarketed as a decorating motif for baby nurseries, Milne's hundred acre wood still charms me like no other children's literature. (By the way, if you've never read A. A. Milne's genuine article, please pick up Winnie the Pooh.)

I love how all of my shortcomings and neuroses are simplified into the innocent blunderings of a mostly happy pack of stuffed animals. It is a childish joy to let Piglet bear my fears, Rabbit have my worries, and Pooh can make my ignorance and ineptitude seem sweet and humorous. If Owl is a bit of a know-it-all, I appreciate his ability to sort out and sum up the entire world, and when Kanga cares for Roo, I too am nurtured and comforted while I am reassured that mothering is a simple task easily accomplished by kindergarten playmates.

But most of all I love Eeyore, and as I go through my daily struggles--getting up out of bed, finding lunch for my husband, choosing between 20 minutes on the computer and a quick shower while the baby naps--I think of that dear donkey plodding along, munching on cursed thorny thistles while a perpetual drizzle hangs over his head. It is the humdrum nature of his gloom that has me quoting Eeyore throughout the day when I feel inadequate and forgotten. His daily surrender to melancholy makes a pleasant receptacle for my little sorrows.

So my baby is still up at least three times a night and I can't seem to find anything decent to wear, even to the grocery store. In general, when it comes to having it all together, I just think of poor tailless Eeyore reminding Pooh, "We can't all and some of us don't."