This little bear has a big problem. Two of them, actually. The first is that his job involves longitudinal stick management. That can't be comfortable. [Does his expression remind you of that coworker who always seems in need of a tree surgeon? Every office has one. I figure that an important part of my job is making sure it's not me. ]
The second is that his coworker is MIA. These needles are only bundled on one end, because I managed to leave Bear #2 at Secondborn's after last week's photo session. BittyBit has made multiple attempts to devour said bear, all foiled -- so far -- by her keen-eyed and nimble-fingered mother.
However, my dear, sweet, otherwise-law-abiding daughter has sent me a ransom note, to wit:
Is this the thanks I get after 14.5 hours of labor, teething, chicken pox, boy bands, et al?
I am shocked. And appalled.
I am also, apparently, trekking to Wally World at dark-thirty tomorrow morning to buy another ginormous box of brownie mix.
So much for my traditional retort [first uttered to her older sister roughly 15 years ago] "The Israelis don't negotiate with terrorists. Neither do I."
She has my bear, you see. And she also has my granddaughter.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!