I am the worst mother in the world and this is my story.

My children had been wanting a dog for quite a while,

but unable to convince his father that a dog was just the thing to make our lives more joyous, my son made do with a stuffed beagle named Banjo. He’d gotten it at a Build-A-Bear store during a vacation in California and he carried it with him everywhere. Little Banjo was his constant companion and beloved pretend-pet—the Hobbs to his Calvin. Where other children might have a security blanket, my son had Banjo. He loved that dog. (To fully appreciate the extent of the psychological damage I have inflicted upon my son, you must first understand this fact. He adored that stuffed beagle.)

One evening, as I was cooking dinner, my son entertained himself by making Banjo fly. Maybe he’d recently watched Underdog or maybe he was just bored, but he repeatedly launched the stubbornly non-aerodynamic beagle from the upstairs balcony, watched him plummet to the floor below, and then raced down the stairs to pick him up and start the whole ceremony again. (My son has since shown a strong interest in science and aeronautics, so perhaps the beagle-launching was some sort of primitive, early exploration into the basic principles involved. More likely though, he was simply a six-year-old who thought it was funny to drop things from high places…something, incidentally, that I’m convinced we never fully outgrow.)

After a good ten minutes of this little show, during which I teased my son that Banjo probably wasn’t enjoying his adventures in free-fall, I decided to play a little joke. (I have to wonder how many of the world’s great tragedies have started out with those very words…”I decided to play a little joke.”) As soon as my son dropped the beleaguered beagle, I snatched it up and darted back into the kitchen. Without a second to spare before my son descended like a small avalanche to reclaim his beloved stuffed friend, I hit it in the first place that occurred to me—and the last place that anyone else would look.

This is where my little “joke” was derailed and things went bad. Rather than arriving at the drop zone and immediately demanding to know where his sidekick was, my son got distracted. I can’t tell you how or by what, but his distraction quickly led to my own distraction and Banjo, the poor hapless victim of this tale, was promptly forgotten.

Fast-forward to the following evening. I’ve just gotten home from work and am hurrying to prepare dinner. I’ve turned on the oven to preheat and am assembling the ingredients for our evening feast. (You already see where this is going, don’t you? I can hear your groans and exclamations of dismay. It is tragically inevitable.)

Before long, my daughter loudly asked me what was burning. Even then I was oblivious to my fatal mistake and my immediate thought was that my husband had left the greasy broiler pan in the oven. **I still feel bad about jumping to that accusatory conclusion, given what happens next.** I quickly donned my oven mitts and opened the oven to remove the offending pan. By this time, my son had appeared on scene, drawn by my daughters declaration that something was burning, and eager, no doubt, to see a repeat performance of “Mom Sets the Stove on Fire”—a drama that had met with mixed reviews several years earlier. I therefore had an audience of two when I opened the oven door and discovered not a dirty pan, but a charbroiled Build-A-Bear beagle.

Horrified by the realization of what I had done, I immediately and decisively slammed the oven door. Pure panic gripped me and my children’s ears perked up with interest. Wow! What could have gotten such a great reaction from Mom? I quickly realized that I couldn’t just leave poor Banjo in there crisping, audience or not. I gathered my courage and reluctantly removed the smoldering stuffed dog. The ensuing wails still haunt my nightmares—and not just my son’s cries. My daughter was almost as distraught as her brother. It was horrifying and it took every bit of self-control I had not to burst into tears myself as I stood in the middle of the kitchen trying desperately to figure out how I was going to fix the situation.

Thankfully, my usually reliable problem-solving skills did not desert me in my hour of need. As my son repeatedly sobbed, “Banjo was a good beagle! He didn’t deserve that!” (breaking my heart into tinier and tinier pieces), my mind raced. The solution was simple enough. I’d buy him a new beagle. Child Psychology 101 teaches us that “new Banjo” can never take the place of “old Banjo” in a six-year-old’s heart, of course, so the trick would be to make it seem like a repair, not a replacement.

The necessary fiction came easily. Everything would be okay, I explained. I would take Banjo to the “Build-A-Bear Hospital” and they would fix him, good as new. I could go right away, I declared after hastily checking the clock. Yes, there was still time to get to the mall before closing time.

Hopeful but still distraught, my son helped me wrap his critically maimed friend in bandages and a blanket, and away I went. A rather tearful drive later, I’m not exactly sure why I felt it necessary to carry the evidence of my crime with me through the mall, but I did. I still wonder what people must have thought if the wild-eyed woman hurrying along with the bandage-wrapped stuffed dog swaddled in a baby blanket. It’s probably best that I never find out. At the time, I wasn’t even conscious of the strange looks I was surely receiving. I was just relieved that there was no line at the Build-A-Bear store. I should, I thought, be able to get in and out in no time, and all would be right with the world once more.

Alas, it was not to be. I desperately searched through the displays of available animals once…twice…and a third time…to no avail. There wasn’t a beagle to be found. With my perfect plan laying in useless shards at my feet, I stood stricken in the middle of the store, fighting back a fresh fountain of tears. What on earth was I going to do now?

At this point, the young man who worked there took pity on me and hesitantly asked the crazy woman if she needed help. Of course it must have been patently obvious that I did, indeed, need help—and a lot of it.

“You don’t have a beagle!” I wailed, half question, half lament.

“No,” he explained carefully. “The beagle has been retired.”

Oh, horror of horrors! All was lost. My son was sure to become a serial killer or a politician after this.

Noticing that this news had further upset me—maybe it was the way all of the blood drained from my face, or maybe it was my uncontrollable whimpering—the young employee hazarded a guess.

“Did you promise somebody a beagle?”

No, no, I explained. It was exponentially worse than that. I proceeded to relate my pathetic tale to the poor, unsuspecting young man. To his credit, he almost managed not to laugh. Then he became my hero. There was a possibility, he explained, that the beagle might still be available online. Clinging to this glimmer of hope, I trailed after him and held my breath while he checked. The relief I felt when he told me that the beagle could be ordered from their Web site was indescribable. I still had a chance to redeem myself! I needed a new game plan though.

First things first—I needed evidence of Banjo’s hospital visit. I scoured the store until I found a tiny Build-A-Bear hospital gown that fit the victim perfectly. I purchased my evidence, dressed the little invalid, and headed for home with the next bit of fiction already forming in my mind.

When I arrived home, I explained that Banjo needed to see a “specialist” and I would have to schedule an appointment. The specialist was near my office, so I would take Banjo to work with me on the day of the appointment and take the little guy to the “doctor” from work. Then I quickly hid in my bedroom and ordered a replacement Banjo. I had it shipped to my office and watched the tracking information like a hawk until I knew exactly what day it was going to be delivered. Then I announced that I had finally gotten an appointment with the specialist and would take poor Banjo with me to work on that day. When the day arrived, I brought the burned Banjo to work and swapped him for the new Banjo. Banjo 2.0 wasn’t as fully stuffed as the original, but that was only to be expected, right? After all, he’d been through a traumatic experience…of course he’d lost a little weight! I delivered the restored Banjo to my son and finally…after much stress and guilt…all was right with the world again. I am currently saving money for my son’s future therapy bills.

As a footnote, I didn’t have the heart to throw away the original burned Banjo. He’s been living in a box under my desk for six years. I thought maybe I’d give him to my son on his wedding day. Or perhaps on my death bed. That’s what death bed confessions are for, right?

**Song going through my head right now: Chasing Pavements. I know it’s not cool to like what’s currently popular, but I’m not cool and I really like Adele. I don’t know what the heck she’s singing about half the time, but she sounds fabulous singing it.**