As the latest entry in the Harry Potter franchise began its run this past weekend (a series I'd given up on once the movies started to blend together in my recollection) I sat with my 2-year-old in a movie theater introducing him to the wonders of cinema with his first film, Winnie the Pooh. I couldn't have selected a better movie to hold my hyperactive child's attention. My older son, J, is a placid little fella, zen-like in his ability to quietly transport himself into the same imaginative universe populated by his Marvel superhero action figures. He loves sitting at the movies with me and falling into the same escapist's world of pleasure I do. The little one, K, is more of a show-me-what-you-got, rampaging ball of hellfire prone to daredevil-like stunts of frightening proportions. But he's always held a soft spot for stuffed animals in a way his older brother never has, cuddling them tightly as he sucks his thumb to lull himself to sleep. Pooh is his favorite. So while I was terrified of exposing him to the adrenaline rush of the vacuous Cars 2 earlier this summer, I had no such reluctance when it came to Winnie the Pooh.
