I will be killed for telling this story, but what the heck. It’s been a stressful week, so death sounds kinda peaceful.

When the older Son, Interrupted was about three or so, we really needed him to finish up on the, shall we say, detail work around toilet training. His little brother was on the way and two kids out of four needing some sort of external support infrastructure in the underpants area was more than I felt I could handle.

He was also a major Winnie the Pooh fan, to the point where it was kind of an obsession.

So I did what any red-blooded American mom would do: I bribed the crap out of him. Literally.

Playing on his innate love of All Things Pooh (and the pun/irony is so obvious I couldn’t intend it), I purchased new bedding for him. Winnie the Pooh bedding. Big ol’ comforter. A veritable sea of Poohs parading across a bright blue background, cavorting with Tiggers and Piglets and Kangas and Roos.

I showed it to him. He immediately went nuts, reaching for it. I said, “When you are completely toilet trained,” and put it on top of the refrigerator so he could see it, just out of reach.

(I recognized that he might go urban guerrilla/ninja on me and try to get it down himself, but mercifully he never tried that.)

That really got results. Winnie the Pooh power works. Mischief managed, and then some.

About a year later, we took the whole crew to Disneyland and made sure to get Son, Interrupted in front of his idol. I believe this picture was taken in a line waiting to see The Great One.

And when he met his idol? He clammed up and went tharn in the headlights, as so many of us often do when faced with our greatest inspiration.

What the heck is she doing now?

© E. Stocking Evans 2016