Baby Bear's House

Baby Bear was hungry.

Not a little hungry. The kind of hungry where your tummy talks to you. It said, grrrrowwwwl.

"Almost home," said Mama Bear.

They had been walking in the woods for a long, long time. Well, Mama Bear and Papa Bear had been walking. Baby Bear had been poking sticks into mud puddles. He had been chasing a butterfly that did NOT want to be chased. He had been sitting on a log saying, "My legs are done."

But now they were almost home. And Baby Bear could already taste his porridge.

"I'm going to eat my porridge SO fast," said Baby Bear.

"You will blow on it first," said Mama Bear.

"I'm going to blow on it SO fast."

Papa Bear opened the front door.

Something was wrong.

Baby Bear didn't know what yet. But the air smelled different. Like outside had gotten inside. Papa Bear's big nose went up. Mama Bear's middle nose went up. Baby Bear's little nose went up too.

"Hm," said Papa Bear.

They walked to the kitchen table. Papa Bear looked at his great big bowl. "Someone has been eating my porridge," he said.

Mama Bear looked at her medium bowl. "Someone has been eating MY porridge," she said.

Baby Bear climbed up on his tiptoes and looked into his little bowl.

Empty.

Not almost empty. Not a-little-bit-left empty. EMPTY empty. Someone had eaten it all up. Every. Last. Bite.

Baby Bear looked at that clean, empty bowl for a long time.

"That was MY porridge," he whispered.

His tummy growled again. But sadder this time.

Baby Bear walked into the sitting room. Maybe he would just sit in his nice little chair and feel his feelings for a minute.

But his chair was not where his chair should be.

His chair was on the floor. In pieces. The seat was here. The legs were there. One leg was way over THERE, under the window, like it had tried to run away.

Baby Bear picked up the seat of his little chair. He held it in both paws. He had loved that chair. It was the only chair in the whole house that was just right for him. And now it was broken into bits.

"Who DID this?" said Baby Bear.

He felt hot behind his eyes.

"Let's go upstairs," said Mama Bear, soft and warm.

Baby Bear climbed the stairs slowly. His porridge was gone. His chair was broken. All he wanted in the whole world now was to curl up in his little bed and pull his blanket over his ears.

They checked Papa Bear's bed. The covers were messed up.

They checked Mama Bear's bed. The pillow was smooshed.

Baby Bear walked to his little bed.

There was a GIRL in it.

A girl with yellow hair, all tangled and wild, curled up under HIS blanket, her muddy shoes on HIS sheets, her mouth open, making a small, buzzy snore.

Baby Bear stared.

"There is a GIRL in my BED," he said. Not quiet.

The girl's eyes flew open. Big and blue and scared.

She looked at Papa Bear — big. She looked at Mama Bear — big too. She looked at Baby Bear, holding the broken seat of his little chair, with his empty tummy and tired legs and hot eyes.

She jumped up.

Baby Bear jumped too, because jumping is catching.

The girl leaped out of his bed, ran to the window, threw it open, and was GONE. Just like that. Down the tree and into the woods, fast as that butterfly he never caught.

The room got quiet.

Baby Bear stood there, holding his broken chair seat. His bed was a mess. His blanket was on the floor.

Then Mama Bear picked him up. She was warm and big and smelled like the woods.

"Come on, Little One," she said.

Papa Bear made new porridge. Warm and just right.

Mama Bear put the blanket in Baby Bear's lap. Clean side up.

Baby Bear ate his porridge slow this time. He leaned against Mama Bear. Papa Bear started fitting the chair legs back together, one by one, humming a low bear hum.

Baby Bear's tummy stopped talking.

The house smelled like home again.