The papers, once carefully sorted into piles signifying some similarity of purpose or importance, now lie scattered by the fuzzy paws of a black cat. I sigh, pushing the cat off of the table - again - and resume sorting the bills. Pay now. Pay later. Use a line of credit. Pay a creditor. Somewhere, deep inside, a small gratefulness stirs, since now I can concentrate on sorting and stop worrying - for a little while - where the money to pay these bills will come from.

"Steve," says a small voice, ignored in the frenzy of attempted reorganization.

Even if the bills were done, there’s still the floors to sweep. The dishes to wash and put away. The laundry to do.

"Excuse me, Steve?"

The kids are arguing, even though they’re supposed to be watching a movie - for crying out loud, it’s a movie they’ve both begged to watch for a week, and now that it’s in front of them it’s more interesting to (judging by the sound) practice a combination of gymnastics and sumo wrestling on the couch while polishing their acts as a professional insulters. "Boys, calm DOWN!"

It’s only the fifth time I’ve said it. I had promised dire consequences after the third time, but no consequences suggest themselves to me. At least, no consequences that I have the time to administer. Besides, they’ve got to be fed dinner - oh, Lord, please let there be something in the cupboard I can fix them for dinner.

"Steve."

Stefan’s almost certainly in a manic cycle; I’ve been fuming over the stolen CD I found in his pocket (again), now scratched beyond readability. It was only a forty dollar game - and one both kids enjoyed, so I can’t just write that off as "natural consequences". I have to remember to get back on that website and order a replacement. I hope I wrote my password down somewhere.

"Steve?"

The screen door bangs in the wind again, it’s managed to pull screws out of the doorframe and warp the hinge; I’ll probably have to replace that too... maybe I can get away with another eight dollar hinge instead of having to replace the whole frame. The budget surely doesn’t have room in it for that. Ooooh, the budget. It sure doesn’t have room in it for all these hospital bills... ah! The appointment tomorrow! How am I going to manage to get to it while I’m at work? I’ll have to remember to reschedule it, but that’ll end up messing with my other obligations... SUNDAY SCHOOL.

I haven’t even looked at the lesson I have to teach in two days. I’ll never get it done. It would take that long to just catch up on reading my e-mail, let alone replying to it. And the webpages need updating. And I have to burn copies of the wedding pictures on CD and mail those out, yet another expense, which brings us back to bills, oh Lord, bills.

"Oh bother. Steve!"

"WHAT?!?!" I yell, turning to face the small fuzzy bear standing slightly behind my chair. He’s oddly familiar, with a jar of "Hunny" in one paw, and a small wrapped package under the other.

"I have brought you a present," he says, and I reluctantly apologize for snapping at him. I’ve been snapping at people too much lately, the stress more than any of us can really bear. But he’s insistent, so I stop (scattering the bills again in the process), and place the package on the table.

It’s simply wrapped, a Christmas-themed paper with trees and Santa Claus repeated on it. A small card stuck to the top reads, simply, "To Steeve". It is light in my hands, and silent, so despite Pooh’s anxious look, I don’t even attempt to guess.

I open it quickly, not with the greedy abandon of a child on Christmas morn, but the haste of someone terminally in a hurry and with things supposedly more important to do. The cardboard box inside does not resist for long, and as I pry back the leaves of the lid, a small quiver of excitement burrows through my spine, whether I want it or not, and I peer inside.

There is nothing there. It figures. After the day I’ve had - am having - some kind of stupid gift from a silly old bear would just take the figurative cake.

I look at Pooh. "What kind of gift is this? If this is some kind of a joke?"

"No," says Pooh. I already told you. It’s Your Present. It’s Right Now. You seemed to have Lost it in those papers, so I Found it again for you."

It takes me a little bit, but I finally get it.

Pooh and I walk into the living room and shut off the television. The children look at me, wondering what comes next. I call my wife downstairs from where she has been equally occupied (or preoccupied) with everything happening before and after, just like I.

We sit down, Pooh, my wife, and I, between the children, and I begin to read.

"Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin."

And it’s a perfectly wonderful Present after all.