Children & Chocolate and Other Paths to God

Last night, after finally getting the 4-year-old to settle down with a way-too-long Winnie the Pooh book, my husband and I crawled into bed ourselves, and had the following sleepy exchange:

Me: “Goodnight, Pooh.”

Hubby: “Goodnight, Piglet.”

Me: “Piglet? I don’t think you should ever call a woman Piglet…”

Hubby: “Oh, but calling me a fat, dimwitted bear is better? What’s wrong with Piglet? He’s cute…”

Me: “He’s a pig. How about Christopher Robin? And I’ll be Tigger?”

Hubby: “I don’t want to be the kid that wears knickers and runs through the forest talking to stuffed animals. Why can’t I be Tigger? You could be Eeyore or Kanga?”

Me: “Nobody wants to be Eeyore. He’s miserable. And poor Kanga was a single mom. Where the heck is Roo’s father anyway?”

Hubby: “Wow, not a lot of redeeming characters in that group. Roo’s sweet and innocent though. Clearly our daughter is Roo…”

Me: “We’ll just both have to be Tigger.”

Hubby: “Yeah, Tigger’s the only happy one. There should be more Tiggers in the world…”