Why I'll Never Give-Up My Winnie-the-Pooh

I have had one good relationship in my life: my stuffed Pooh. Yes, as in Winnie. That rumbly, tumbly honey loving star of many Disney animated films. And best friend to Christopher Robin, Eeyore, Piglet, Owl and Rabbit, Kanga and Roo.

My stuffed Pooh is the only male to consistently share my bed. Probably because Pooh always agrees with me, doesn't hog the covers, and doesn't snore. What Pooh does do, is love me unconditionally.

His place of prominence dates back to my crib days. My mother placed a tiny felt Pooh in with me as I was tucked in every night, thus earning me the nickname "Pooh" with my family.

I kept that particular Pooh until an unfortunate accident involving Pooh and the bath tub. I then received two other Pooh's (courtesy of Sears Easter baskets), but they were defiled by my childhood dog.

All of which brings me to my current Pooh (Current being subjective, I've been sleeping with this Pooh since I was 8).

Every night, and I mean every night for the last 23 years, I've had this Pooh with me as I drifted off to sleep. (Well, OK, there was the night I spent in the hospital after falling out of the back of a pick-up truck dressed like a reindeer during a Christmas parade, but that wasn't my fault or my choice. Oh, and the three nights I spent in lockdown. But that's another story).

My childhood days were mostly carefree, but my nights were often long and scary. I never knew if my parents were going to fight or if a shark called Jaws really did live beneath my bed.

When my parents fought, they either yelled or my mother got the hell beaten out of her. And my mother's promise that I lived 1,000 miles from the ocean did nothing to calm my imagination. What if my parents fought or Jaws really did live beneath my bed? But through it all, I had Pooh.

He'd stay awake at night no matter how hard I clutched him, keeping watch over me, and bringing me safely to another morning. He'd wait patiently for me every day to return from school, and then wait some more while I played with everything else but him. He knew, come nightfall, he'd be my choice.

My mother was only mildly concerned that I was still sleeping with Pooh in high school. My father was overjoyed because, by his calculations, if I was sleeping with Pooh, I wasn't sleeping with a boy.

When it came time to go away to college, Pooh was the last thing I packed. And as I sat in my dorm room some 300 miles from home, it was Pooh I held those first few lonely nights.

Pooh has been with me every step of the way, and I in turn, have never forsaken Pooh.

In case you are wondering, yes, anyone who shares my bed, shares it with Pooh. And anyone I've ever been sexually involved with knows there are two things I do prior to gettin' it on:......I take off my Immaculate Mary necklace, and I place Pooh on the floor with something covering his eyes. He is, (after all) a very young bear.

Pooh has attained such prominence in my life that when I fly somewhere, he goes in the carry-on. I am not embarrassed to have the X-Ray machine pick-up the form of a bear (Besides, they always think it's for my child).

He gets washed only when absolutely necessary, lest he fall apart in the machine. And we've had some close calls with Pooh.

He's been re-stuffed three times, and his original red shirt is long since gone. The red shirt was a victim of our Chow, who thought it'd be fun to steal him off the bed and take off into the yard with him. At night. That was a mistake that dog made only once.

I am 35 years old and I still sleep with a stuffed bear named Pooh. This Easter, Pooh and I will have been together for 27 years; that's longer than most marriages.

So whenever I travel somewhere or meet someone new, I am not embarrassed to be seen with Pooh. If anyone dares laugh, I merely point out that Pooh always agrees with me, doesn't hog the covers, and doesn't snore.

What he does do, is love me unconditionally. And for that, I will never, ever part with him.