winnie the pooh

It being a public holiday in South Africa today, we had the choice of taking the kids to the Aquarium to attack some generic fish or to Bizzy Bodies to attack a jumping castle or three. Given the choice early on, Alex opted for fish molestation at the aquarium, but as soon as inflatable fun was mentioned, there was no turning back and we headed off to Westlake (which, as mentioned previously, lies to the west of a lake) (genius).

Bizzy Bodies is basically a big warehouse which has been carpeted and has a giant climbing frame, three giant inflatable jumping castles and a whole heap of various toys for kids to choose from and play with. Parents can sit and drink coffee, eat unhealthy food and watch their child’s energy resources becoming more and more scarce with happy smiles on everyone’s faces. It is – I think – perhaps the perfect symbiotic relationship between parents, children and the business owners, who presumably, are Mr & Mrs Body.

Obviously, the four large brick walls of a warehouse are pretty dour for kids, so they have decorated them with happy stick figures and a wonderfully airbrushed Mickey Mouse. Oh – and this, right above the infants section:

Seriously… WTF? [Bigger here (if you dare)]

I’m guessing – from the information which my mind was still able to process, having seen that monstrosity – that those are supposed to be Winnie the Pooh and friends. But, resisting the urge to unleash a plethora of swearwords, what [on earth] was the artist thinking about? Pooh Bear doesn’t look like Pooh Bear, Piglet’s head is deformed from the ursine grip in which he finds himself, Eeyore looks kind of resigned to being in a really crap mural, Tigger looks like a happy paedophile* and Roo… I just… don’t have… the words. I thought he was supposed to be a baby kangaroo. Not some sort of deviant monkey.

What on earth possessed them to hire a blind artist? And why didn’t they paint over it the moment she had left the building? She’s even signed her name and left her cell number at the bottom. I will have to follow up on that at a later date. I was too shocked to take it all in at the time. Too scared to go close.

I found K-pu, ignoring all the exciting toys surrounding her, just staring – terrified – at the image on the wall. Staring. Inexorably staring.
I was very worried about her seeing anything Pooh Bear-related when we came home, but I need not have worried. The difference between those utter freaks in the mural and the friendly faces from the Hundred-Acre Wood was far too great a leap for her little mind to grasp.

Thank goodness. She may never have slept again. (Although I’m not sure if we would have noticed a difference).

* which, given his surroundings, is perhaps unsurprising.

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There are certain things that only a dad can do for his son. Buying him his first razor, teaching him how to shave, driving him to the nearest hospital with a blood bank and so on.

Of course, little Alex is some way off those days. Although that doesn’t stop him experimenting with my shaving foam if it’s not strategically placed out of his reach. He is growing up quickly though and indeed, he starts playschool on Thursday. It was this momentous occasion that tempted me into an extravagant, yet important purchase this lunchtime: A Winnie the Pooh backpack. Too cute.

The boy loves Winnie and since Disney took over the rights to his image (the bear, not my son) and americanized it, there’s no shortage of Pooh-related merchandise out there for parents to waste money on. Yes, it’s horribly commercial, but worth every penny when you see the look on his face (my son, not the bear). And I do draw the line somewhere safely on the sensible side of large purple dinosaurs.

The backpack is great. I brought it home this evening, beautifully wrapped in a plastic carrier bag and presented it to Alex in the living room. He tore it open impatiently, desperate to get a better view of the smiling ursine visage within.
Winnie may have been grinning inanely, Alex may have been giggling gleefully, but his mum’s face was a picture. A watercolour of rage. Rage, disappointment and a touch more rage. And then a little more disappointment on a sideplate. Would you like fries with that?
Hell hath no fury like a ~~woman~~ mother scorned.
Somewhere just next to my left ear, a little voice whispered, “Oops. You just broke another one of those unwritten parenting laws, didn’t you?” I glanced down to see who it was doing the whispering, just in time to see a fluffy little bunny wabbit blasted from my shoulder by my wife’s laser eyes. I swear I heard it let out a fluffy little bunny wabbit scream.

It has left an unsightly burn mark on my t-shirt.

Alex likes the backpack, although it irritates him that he can’t see Winnie and friends when he has it on. Also, by the time it’s got everything he needs for playschool in there, he won’t be able to lift it either. But these are mere details.

The fluffy little bunny wabbit was correct. If you’re a dad, you must stick to the birds and bees, football and shaving. Son’s first backpack falls strictly under the heading of maternal duties.
Fathers across the world, you have been warned.

Tag: winnie the pooh

Is that really the best you could manage?

It’s a father’s job, right? Wrong.