Hi, I am Bon’s older sister, Becky. I was the first born in the family while Bon was number seven which means that Bon was the party girl while I was good at cleaning bathrooms.
I don’t know why you would read the blog of a first born child. We are known as the boring, responsible ones, while the number sevens are far more entertaining. Still, there are a few things Bon and I have in common. We both read like crazy, we both are a little ADD, we both deal with rowdy kids, and now that Bon’s seven months pregnant, I’m guessing we both weigh about the same. Hoping, at least.
Come on over
to see me because I’m a strong believer in community. You read my blog, and I’ll read yours. Just leave a comment or follow me and I’ll be sure to reciprocate.
I know you are all nuts about Bon, and so am I. Bon has always had such a tender heart. She cried before I left on my mission to Guatemala, and she wrote to me every week, her letters often between eight and ten pages long.
|Bonnie was sad when I left.
My mom, who made me a wonderful scrapbook, wrote this next to the picture of the four girls.
But when I invited Bonnie to come live with us in California after her freshman year in college, she had changed. Really changed. I loved having this high energy girl around, but why was she always looking for a party, and why did she always want to borrow my car?
But I became especially concerned when she came downstairs late one night wearing a pair of short shorts, a tank top, and her tennis shoes.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Out on a run,” she said.
“Right now? It’s 10:30.”
“You know you’re not in Utah anymore.” Since she was Bonnie, she went out anyway, looking super cute and really vulnerable, and I got to wait up for her. Except I didn’t. I promised myself I would only lie down on my bed, but I was asleep in about five minutes.
I woke with a start after midnight. Where’s Bonnie?
I went upstairs to check her bedroom, and she wasn’t there. I cased the house and still no Bonnie. I called her cellphone only to find that she had left it at home. The car was still in our garage, and that’s when I started freaking out.
And for the rest of the story . . . .