Mira, my three year old, is currently in her Winnie the Pooh costume. She wore it yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, too. In fact, she has worn it just about every day since Halloween – not Halloween 2005, mind you, but Halloween 2003. The costume is a size 3T. She’s been a size 4T for about six months, so it’s starting to get a bit challenging stuffing her into the darn thing. I keep telling myself that it won’t be long, now. Soon, she will absolutely not be able to fit in it. For now, she somehow manages to strain herself in awkward positions in order to wrestle her head into the hood part to zip herself completely up. The costume itself is getting quite gritty-looking. I’ve had it dry cleaned, but the puffiness of Pooh’s belly is disappearing, and the fluffiness of Pooh’s fur is becoming more matte.

Minutes after Mira is outfitted in Pooh, our house transforms into the Hundred-Acre Wood. Mira starts addressing me as “Kanga,” her sister Leela as “Roo,” and refers to my husband Brian as “Tigger.” “Kanga, can I have some honey for lunch?” she calls. “Kanga, Roo is sitting on my favorite book!” And, “When is Tigger coming home from work?”

I must confess. I actually enjoy being a part of this tale, this web of imagination she spins. I’d rather be Kanga, some days, when Roo has had an all night nursing session, or when I forgot to pay a bill, or when my car won’t start because the battery is dead, yet again. Kanga likely possesses a vast supply of patience, so that when Roo removes his diaper and empties all of its contents on her prized Pottery Barn rug (bought on clearance, mind you), she simply inhales deeply, clears her conscience of all ill thoughts, and sinks, resignedly but contently, to her knees to scrub out the stain. I, on the other hand, pat myself on the back for not using the really bad curse words, raise my voice a little too high, exaggerate my exhale to release my very agitated anger, and afterwards, get that sinking feeling of remorse for my overreaction. I imagine, though, that in the face of frustration or anxiety (which I doubt she ever even feels), Kanga probably never yells at Roo and then suffers from profound guilt afterwards.

Unlike me, Kanga has probably been on a date with Roo’s father within the past three months. Kanga probably still gets butterflies in her stomach on a regular basis, the result, no doubt, of her uncanny ability to nurture her romantic relationship with her partner, despite the mind-numbing exhaustion of infant caretaking and unending household chores. I can see Kanga now, reading cover to cover self-help books on how to keep the fires burning, while I snuggle up with the latest installation of Harry Potter.

Although I still second-guess my decision to stay at home full time, Kanga would probably never regret quitting a part-time job for full time child-rearing. On the contrary, Kanga probably spent most of her younger years dreaming of the day when she would become a mother, her strong maternal instincts kicking in even as she played with baby dolls or stuffed animals – a startling contrast to my own girlhood surrounded by leggos and matchbox cars.

And while Kanga is busy knitting sweaters, inventing numerous, age-appropriate crafts, and otherwise ensuring that Roo receives her undivided attention during his every waking hour, I hide from my children in my home office, trying desperately to type a few words at a time, in between refereeing squabbles, kissing boo boos, or refilling sippy cups. And when I have a few moments of clarity, I fantasize about the occasional, affordable childcare that would allow me to enter a grocery store unencumbered by my two girls.

Kanga doesn’t yearn to live closer to the friends she grew up with – after all, she lives with them together in the Hundred-Acre Wood. She had support from her life-long friends, I suppose, when Roo’s colic nearly drove her mad, or when he had low weight gain and she was unnecessarily panicked by pediatricians, or when she cried some nights, not knowing why, because of the sheer amount that motherhood required of her. I can just see it now, Pooh surprising her with a jar full of honey, Tigger offering sprightly advice to cheer her up, Owl calming her over a cup of hot tea, and Rabbit picking the finest vegetables from his garden, so that Kanga wouldn’t have to worry about making dinner that night.

Yes, while I envy Kanga her pleasant, complacent nature, and roll my eyes at her seemingly intrinsic ability to mother, many days, when Mira asks to put on her Pooh costume, I am grateful she feels the need to be someone else, because sometimes I do, too. And when my daughter finally outgrows it, the mother in me won’t really miss the Pooh costume itself, but will sorely miss the little girl who once fit into the costume, and the much needed breaks from reality that she provided.

Read more from the lovely Anjali Enjeti-Sydow at Life in the Hundred-Acre Wood