My Bear Hunt
The problems in this children's book get bigger and bigger. Just. Like. Real Life.
In a dark corner of my dusty basement, I have two boxes full of books I am saving for my grandchildren. Let’s be clear: I do not expect to become a grandmother anytime soon. My own children are 22, 19, and nearly 16. They spend no more time thinking about their future children than they do thinking about their future 401k accounts.
But things have been tough in our house lately. And that’s what got me thinking about those books. Reading to my children was my favorite part of being a mom of little people. I loved how they scooched backwards into my lap, butt first, their hair still damp from the bath. I loved how they tucked their head under my chin, relaxing into my chest. But most of all, I loved the certainty of knowing I was doing something good for them because I spent so much of my day questioning every other move I made: Is it too soon for soccer? Are they eating enough vegetables? Am I too strict? Am I strict enough? Did we even go outside yesterday?
Of course, reading to small children can be tedious, too. I hid the Richard Scarry books. I labeled the reading of the Hardy Boys a “father-son activity” so I wouldn’t have to participate. In the interest of time, I sometimes skipped pages when they were too young to notice and I was too tired to read every word. But by and large, the books were awe-inspiring.
If Jesus Came to My House was a revelation — basically Christianity for Dummies — everything you need to know about one of the world’s great religions written at a pre-K level. I introduced my daughter to feminism with The Paper Bag Princess. And I fell in love with words all over again reading Sarah, Plain and Tall.
But the book I’ve been thinking about most often lately is We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. In case you’re not familiar, here are the basics: A family goes looking for a bear and eventually finds it, is appropriately scared, and scampers back home to hide in a bed that is somehow big enough for a co-sleeping family of five. Along the way, they encounter a series of geographic and meteorological hurdles. A river, a forest, a snowstorm, etc. There’s a chorus (what do you call that in books?) on every other spread:
We’re going on a bear hunt.
We’re going to catch a big one.
What a beautiful day!
We’re not scared.
Then they encounter problem after problem that prevents them from finding the bear. At first, it’s just tall grass. No big deal, right?
We can’t go over it. We can’t go under it.
Oh, no!
We’ve got to go through it!
But the problems get bigger and bigger. Just. Like. Real. Life. And this is the bit I’ve been stuck on for weeks, as I trudge along on my own difficult journey. According to the back cover, Bear Hunt is “the tale of a brave family joyous romp,” but I have a much different take on it.
Bear Hunt is a book about the stuff you can’t fix. It’s about the struggle you just have to survive. You can’t go over it. You can’t go under it. Oh, no. You’ve got to go through it.
That feeling of being powerless, that feeling of watching from the sidelines with dread — or even horror — is all too familiar in our individual lives and society writ large.
There are no hard or easy ages with kids. They are each hard and easy in their own way. But the particular flavor of hard that I am experiencing as a parent right now requires more bravery than a bear hunt.
My daughter had three brain surgeries in 2020. We thought we had conquered our toughest challenge (her 16-year-long battle with drug-resistant epilepsy). But then things got worse in a new way. And what we’re dealing with now makes those surgeries look like the plucky plot of a YA book. I’m not going to go into the details, her struggle is not my story to tell.
My story is the story of a parent (or any adult really) who can’t go over or under their problems. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve done everything I can do. I’ve fixed everything I can fix (which, truthfully, wasn’t much). And now I simply have to go through it.
When you are struggling with abiding, unfixable pain, you are — as the brilliant Kate Bowler writes in No Cure for Being Human — “everyone’s inspiration and nobody’s friend.” You may struggle with crippling addiction, sudden unemployment, a devastating divorce, a desperate desire to become a mom, or parenting a child with a disease for which there is no cure. People admire you, but they can’t help you. In fact, in my experience anyway, the bigger the struggle, the harder it is for anyone else to do or say anything helpful. You’re on this hunt alone.
I wrote the first draft of this essay before the mass murder at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. But as I re-read it now, I think about the journey the families of those victims must now walk. About how there is no way to circumnavigate it. No shortcut. And how long that journey will take (the rest of their lives?). To be clear, this essay is not about their pain, which is — quite literally — unthinkable. I cannot imagine their grief. Their anger. Their despair. But I do know a bit about dealing with a chronic crisis.
Again, I’ll defer to Kate Bowler, who explained this concept better than I ever could. ”Any persistent suffering requires being afraid,” she writes. “But who can stay awake to fear for so long?” Not me. Not the people who love me. And certainly not an entire country. “Any news, no matter how terrible,” she says, “seems like old hat after about three months.”
So what do you do? You go through it. You live with the pain and you go through it. That’s it. You count the days you survive the way an alcoholic counts days of sobriety. (And you remember that you have survived 100% of your worst days, because you are, in fact, here today.)
I hate that the Bear Hunt family says they aren’t scared. I, for one, am scared shitless, though often the slow-burn of my current struggle feels more like discouragement and dread. That said, I think naming it properly — “This feeling is fear” — helps. Why? You’ve heard it before, but it bears repeating: Bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s being scared and doing “it” anyway (whether “it” is giving up drinking, quitting your job, or supporting a struggling child).
I can’t fix the problem. But I can be brave. I can get up and say, “I’m scared.” But then I can go for a run and get dressed. I can sit at my desk and write (or at least pretend to write). And — on a good day — I can make dinner for my family and watch a show with my kids. That’s about it. That’s the best I can do.
But given that I’m not the only one struggling, I’m going to try to keep an eye out for other humans going through it. I’m going to try to join them for part of their journey, even if only for a few steps. I’m going to try to “stay awake” for their pain while I walk through my own.
Also on my mind
In the wake of two recent mass shootings, this piece offers a fascinating discussion of the benefits, costs and history of sharing graphic images in the media. There are, of course, no easy answers. But I found that the themes here lent themselves to a deeper discussion about violence and justice with my teenagers. And while we’re on this horrible subject, here’s how every senator responded when PBS asked what action should be taken on guns.
Mom brain isn’t a joke, writes Julie Bogen in The Atlantic. It’s the manifestation of the cognitive burden of all the thankless work our society expects female parents to perform without pay or support.
Back in the aughts my kids loved their iPods. And now, after almost 22 years, Apple will no longer produce the game-changing gadget. For a fun trip down memory lane, check out PC Mag’s visual history of the iPod.
Leandre Medine Cohen of Manrepeller fame recently deconstructed one of my favorite outfits: the Canadian tuxedo. Always wanted to try the denim-on-denim looks? Here’s how to do it well.
I didn’t know I was part of a moment until I read about the 12/3/30 treadmill trend. (Seriously, I’ve been doing this for months and thought it was my idea.) This is a great alternative to your high-impact cardio when you’re not in the mood for a run.
This is the year I — and many of my friends — turn 50. So reading advice about the two choices that keep a midlife crisis at bay seemed especially timely.
I’m burned out on cooking. But one way I’ve been able to begin to start rekindling my interest in the kitchen is by trying seasonal recipes. Right now that means cooking with rhubarb, so why not try Grossy Pelosi’s “any fruit” crisp or David Lebovitz’s rhubarb cordial. Neither qualifies as a meal, but it’s a start.
It’s too bad “My Strange Addiction” went off the air in 2015, because I have a new compulsive behavior to share. I’m obsessed with “measuring” the amount of dirt, dust and dog hair collected by my new robovac. I like the Eufy way better than the much more expensive Roomba I used to have . In fact, I sold the latter so I could buy a second Eufy. (Thanks for the recommendation, Young House Love.)
On Memorial Day, I read a thought-provoking piece about the evolving role of women in combat that focuses on two female Marines killed in the August 2021 attack on the airport in Kabul, Afghanistan.
If you’re anything like me, post-pandemic socializing is still a struggle. Don’t worry: The geniuses at Girls’ Night In crowd-sourced a fabulous list of questions to start more meaningful conversation. Give them a try and let me know how it goes.