The Curse of Benny Bear

I was sitting calmly in the pickup line waiting for Shelby when it happened.

I didn't see it coming.



"Mom! Benny Bear is mine for the weekend and we get to record all our adventures and take pictures and do lots of fun stuff!"

Stupid bear.

I mean, I hate to be a killjoy but shouldn't there have been some sort of written warning so I could shift around our Disneyland vacation or something? I had a giant Sunday school party at my house that night and Seth ended up getting caught in surgery for a chunk of the weekend.

Fascinating adventures right there.

To make matters worse I almost forgot about the bear until the night before hence only two pictures. THANK YOU NINI!!! for taking pictures while you watched Shelby and made gingerbread men otherwise it would have been the lamest entry in the notebook.



Is it sad that I had to stage a game of Candyland the night before?

As I typed up the "amazing adventures" of Benny Bear (while muttering under my breath), I flipped through previous entries. Of course there were a few mom's who felt the need to make us all look bad, but, overall, the entries were filled with "I (Benny Bear) got to go with Sarah to her brother's soccer game all day on Saturday" or "I got to swing on the swing in the backyard! How fun!." I began to feel much better about Benny's adventures or lack thereof. Apparently, all the other moms lead a somewhat similar life that does not include:

a. jetting away to tropical destinations on the weekends
b. mingling with the rich and famous
c. leaving the house much unless is is to attend another child's function or go to the store

I got Benny's letter typed up and he managed to make it back w/o a dog gnawing on him or getting dropped in a puddle.

I'll just go ahead and mark this one in my motherhood "victory column."

It's running low.