My son, who is nearing 11, has a small stuffed bear he acquired last summer. He sleeps with it nightly, at home and on sleepovers. He carefully tucks the bear in next to him, pulls the covers right up to his neck, and pats him gently before rolling over. When he’s at home, he puts the bear under his arm, right up in his armpit, and then proceeds to do whatever he’s doing (Legos, homework, Minecraft, setting the table, brushing his teeth, helping in the kitchen). His body posture has curved to accommodate his constant arm-companion. I have come to say helpful things, like, “Put the bear down if you’re gonna slice the orange.” I have managed to refrain from other helpful statements, like, “You’re ruining your spine.” I know, I sound like a parent.
He’s set to have a sleepover this weekend, but forgot his bear at home. Would I bring it school for him?
Impulse 1: “You’re getting kind of old for this kind of thing. Do you really need him?”
Impulse 2: “I’ll drop everything and bring you the bear right this minute.”
I told him I’d bring it when I came to school for some volunteer work later.
Mama Bear and Burroughs
Then I decided to see what it’s like to walk around with Burroughs (he’s not named for the literary figure, but for a hiking trail we took over the summer when we spotted a – you guessed it – bear.) We were frightened and excited. We went through several layers of protective thoughts and actions. The bear just kept munching on bushes. When we were done being scared, we had our son take a picture. Burroughs is the embodiment of risk and safety, adventure and home, love and danger. I put him under my left arm and went about my day.
I liked it. It reminded me of our summer trip, and the way the story of the bear has become one of our favorite family stories. My husband is inordinately proud of the way he protected us. When he tells the story, it is his set of actions that prevailed and kept us alive. When I tell the story, I’m focused on my actions, my Mama-Bear reflexes that caused me to pick my son up silently and move him to the other side of me. My son is proud because he went from not knowing he was in danger to being scared to being on the other side of scared, which is a hard state to describe, since the absence of fear is certainly not happiness; relieved perhaps. And he’s got the glory of having taken the photo.
It reminded me of the closeness from the baby-wearing days. My back suffered, but it was a dreamy delight to have the feel and smell of my youngster in the crook of my arm.
I’m pretty sure Burroughs and my son will find a natural time to part ways. But until they’re both ready, I say, let ’em hang out together as long as it makes my son feel whatever part of the whole he accesses when his little friend is right smack dab, snug and safe, exactly there. Burroughs seems to like it just fine, too.