For Love of Eyeore

The little boy looks to have a purpose in mind when he enters the store.  His eyes quickly scan the place, then settle on one corner to which he makes his way.  He doesn't seem to notice any of the other delights he passes on his mission, which is surprising considering he has entered the Disney Store.  Mickey Mouse, Lion King, Goofy, Aladdin, Donald--they beckon from every side, but he barely acknowledges their presence with his conscious mind.

In a moment, Danny is there, standing in Pooh Corner.  And even now it is clear he has a specific goal in mind, a goal which becomes obvious as the clerk watches him reach out and tentatively touch each and every Eyeore on the shelves.  His mother enters the store moments behind the ten-year-old and he turns to smile at her, his eyes full of the wonder of magical creatures and fantasy worlds.

"Look at this cute little Tigger," his mother says, but he barely complies.  Without speaking he shows her, one by one, each ceramic or furry stuffed Eyeore he comes upon. His birthday is in two months and he has taped signs all over the house that say, "Eyeore."  They're on his mother's mirror and the lamp beside her bed.  She's left them there, even though she hardly needs a reminder.

She gives in to his excitement, leaving the Poohs and Roos and Tiggers--her personal favorite--to other children's affectionate touch.  She oohs and aahs over each new discovery he makes and, being the one chosen by destiny to be the practical member of the twosome, she also checks every price tag.

"I love Eyeore," he says, chuckling.  He looks like the live-action version of Christopher Robin himself, with his unkempt blonde hair and knobby knees poking out from under baggy shorts.

"Don't pay any attention to me," he says in a slow, deep voice that mimics the Disney donkey.  "Nobody ever does."

He laughs at his own joke.

Why Eyeore? his mother wonders, not for the first time.  Eyeore is everything Danny isn't.  Shy, timid, and totally devoid of self-esteem, he seems the very antithesis of the young boy who lovingly holds the large stuffed donkey in his arms.

"This one is only twenty-five dollars," he tells his mother.  "I thought it would be at least forty."

Twenty-five dollars is within reach of his meager allowance, forty really isn't. 

As always happens, her heart is touched by this boy and his unabashed love for such a childish thing.  He has already begun to show signs of  his approaching adolescence, becoming moody and getting angry at half of what she says at any given time.  For his mother, this sign of his lingering childhood is something to be treasured.  If she could, she would buy him every Eyeore in the place.

He settles on a ceramic figurine for only eight dollars, an amount he has been able to save by earning extra money weeding the flower bed.  This is a boy who whines if you ask him to pick up his shoes, but who spent an hour pulling up dandelions for Eyeore.  She would give him the the twenty-five dollars for the large, cuddly one, but she knows that, to him, the one he can pay for himself is just as dear.

She watches him approach the counter and pull out his bright orange wallet with the turquoise trim, scattering some pennies as he does.  The clerk is asking him if he's a collector, and he shyly tells her about the other figures that sit on the shelf at home.

He counts out the change carefully, his mother trying to watch unobserved--this boy-child, in love with mopey little Eyeore; this man-child, counting out his hard-earned money.  Her heart aches at the simplicity of the act that carries such depth of meaning for her, the observer who knows exactly what it means for him, the Christopher Robin taking joy in a purple donkey, content to be whatever he is at this moment.