Bear With Me

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.