Polar Wednesday

Woe can sometimes come from unexpected sources.  Waking my son up on this last Wednesday morning wasn’t fun. The woe alarm was clanging in my head.  I’d rather wake up an angry polar bear.

My son was an angry polar bear this last Wednesday.  How easily this polar bear undermined my pleasant morning.

I do not wake up with the heart of the polar bear.  I’m more of a happy hermit crab.  I carry the comfort of a warm, soft bed around with me to start the day.  My muscles are relaxed.  The day is still pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.  I can retreat into my shell with a good cup of morning coffee and this hermit crab is as happy as a clam.

I’m sure polar bears would eat crabs, clams and anything else that got in its way.  My polar bear wouldn’t bat a paw at eating anything, least of all me, his happy hermit crab mother who often tries to sing him into a pleasant state before he roars out of his cave.  Maybe it’s my singing.  It is really terrible.  The lyrics I create to go with my off-key singing might also be a factor but you can’t fault me for trying.  I’ve looked into this bear’s eyes and I know fear.

A mom does what she’s got to do.  As much as I dread jeopardizing my happy morning mood by tossing it to an angry bear, it’s got to be done.  The alternative is to let the bear stay home all day, eat junk and play non-stop video games.  Polar bears who do that all day lose all social skills as well as the opportunity to get an education and participate in the normal life of a American boys who drag themselves off to school reluctantly and spend most of their day talking about video games and thinking about how to trade lunch for some junk food.  A mom does what she’s got to do.

I’d prefer not to be called to truancy court which actually goes through a lot of hoops, loops and whistles before juvenile hall but the polar bear doesn’t have to know that.  I haven’t pulled that out of my arsenal of weaponry yet.  I’m saving it for the last ditch effort before one swipe of a polar paw leaves me a pile of bloody ribbons.

Wednesday morning’s struggle was intense.  The clock was ticking.  The bear was still in pajamas.  The sound, pounding in my ears, was my heart.  My voice was not singing.  It rose about an octave and I spoke in short, curt shrieks that even hurt my ears.  It doesn’t help the bear.  It made him more angry.   Handing him off to the next “zoo keeper” on this sojourn to school was a relief that I was too upset to enjoy, at first.  I drove to work sputtering with complaints I didn’t want to hear.

And, then I began to hatch a plot.  Psychology is at my disposal.  Am I not the wily human one, the happy hermit crab who just might have a powerful weapon on my side, my intuition and ability to alter my response and thus redirecting the polar bear’s behavior with clever mommy manipulation?

Watch out polar bear.  I’m getting ready for you.  No more woeful Wednesday mornings.

I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.


I am reading

The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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