I kept thinking of this all day:
Which, this little book has always had an extra helping of the sad-sweetness that is Pooh, to me.
I mean, it isn’t stories. It’s poems. And, this:
When I was three I was hardly me
When I was five I was just alive
So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.
And… it’s kind of true.
It’s awfully fun and strange, having a six-year-old around.
He makes new kinds of jokes. Startles us with his sense of humor. (I talked about making shrimp-wrapped-bacon for his birthday party and he said, “Heh. You better be careful, mama. I ate ’em all the last time.”) …um, he did. We made double this time.
He startles us with his turns of phrase. “I believe it’s over there…” “I don’t prefer that kind…” Who the hell talks like that? Oh shit.
He startles me with his snugglesome side. I keep expecting it to fade away but we are in a snuggle renaissance. He likes to get in the “warm spot” with me in the morning and hug me skin to skin, and gives me “twenty two kisses” at night. I know this will change, I know it, and I am putting every single smooch and snug into my bank against more distant days down the road.
He’s the same, he’s different, he’s himself, growing to become the big boy he is. Awesome. Six.