Here I am, happily blogging along about my son and his soon-to-be little brother, thinking my biggest problem is getting more than 11 people per week to visit the site, when along comes A.A. Milne and son to scare the Pooh out of me.

I was shocked to discover that Christopher Robin Milne, the inspiration for the stories that made his father rich and famous, grew up to resent his father for putting him on such public display. Apparently, he was teased by his classmates in school. As an adult, he was put off at having to talk so much Pooh at social gatherings.

I’d wanted to show a photo of Christopher Robin and his toy bear here, but that could present copyright issues. Instead, here is a more recent boy with his “toy” cat.

This information struck a sudden fear into my heart. What if my boys grow to resent me for making them the engine of my success? Fortunately, the word success was on hand to console me. I thought about the billions of people the stories of A. A. Milne had touched, and then I thought about you – the faithful 11. I love you all, more so because the odds say that, out of a sample of this size, there are unlikely to be any children in my kids’ school classes who might mock them and turn them against me. You guys always do right by me.

It’s good not to have your children grow up resenting you, especially if you didn’t earn any riches off the cause of the resentment. At least the Milnes had something to show for their familial strife. I can see an adult Christopher Robin trying to complain to his father about how he was wronged. I envision the elderly A. A. throwing heavy bundles of £100 notes at his son. “There you go, you sniveling little brat,” the old man grumbles. “I ruined your life, did I? Well, just go buy yourself another one. The bear never complains.”

Okay, if you really need to see a fake bear, here is a random, thus certainly not trademarked, bear.

I can’t afford for my kids to resent me in my dotage. I don’t have wads of cash to throw at them. I’ll be lucky if I can compile a complete roll of quarters with which to defend myself. I especially don’t want my kids’ resentments to boil to a head during the nursing home selection season. I can hear them now: “After so many years of exposing our private lives to nearly a dozen people, it’s time to embrace your golden years, Dad. Enjoy your time at Putrid Acres.” Then they go visit their mother in the licensed facility.

I guess I’ll have to set them down one day and discuss what’s going on here. We’ll see what they think about writing all my jokes for me and whether it is a hardship to their lives. But until they learn to read, what happens here is strictly between the 12 of us. Okay?