The BearWe’d been away from the girls approximately 18 hours and while most people wouldn’t call that a vacation, I did as I am always with the girls. Always. All the time. Where are they now? With me! See what I mean? And so, we thought we’d mark the monumental occasion and bring them home a gift. Because that’s what people do when they come home from vacation: bestow gifts upon the bitter left-behinds that didn’t get to make the trip.

Dave wanted to buy them stuffed bears. Given that the girls have one hundred million gajillion stuffed animals, I suggested that a stuffed bear may be the stupidest idea ever in the world. I perused the clothing and craft sets, you know, something they’d use. But, Dave was persistent and we came home with two bears: one white, one brown.

We gave them to the girls and they fussed over them as they’ve learned to do in order to show gratitude for the sentiment expressed. I fully expected them to be tossed aside and forgotten. So, you can imagine my surprise that night when Julia climbed into bed and requested her new bear.

Now, three months later, those girls wouldn’t dare to dream of going to bed without their “bearies” Or to the store. Or outside to play. Or anywhere. It’s like those frickin’ frackin’ bears are sewn to their arms or something.

Dave is so smug about it all. Now and then, he’ll nod toward a bear and give me a wink. And I think of that wink whenever I have to scour the house or trudge out to the driveway in my pajamas to retrieve a forgotten bear. Or I have to make a lunch for “Beary’s” first day of school. Or I have to scrub the paint or applesauce or chocolate or bubble gum or cornflakes or rubber cement from their fur. Or I have to pull over and stop the van because I forgot to buckle the bear’s seatbelt and, “Mom, it’s unsafe. He could die!!!!” And I think next time Dave winks at me, I’m going to poke him right in the eye.