One from the archives...
I’ve introduced myself—and been introduced—in many different ways. I’ve been described as “the wife,” “the mother,” “the prosecutor,” “the writer,” “the utility person,” “the girlfriend,” “the mother of the bride,” and "the Hot Dog Fairy."
But this time, I was at the bedside of one of my children at an enormous university hospital, and when the specialist walked in, trailing a pair of medical students behind, I stuck my hand out in greeting, and announced my status so there would be no mistake.
“Hi, I’m Mary. I’m the mother tiger.”
I don’t know why it took me so long. It’s not like with four kids I’ve had any shortage of opportunities. I’ve sat at bedsides waiting for test results to come back, X-rays to be analyzed, abdomens to be palpated, surgery to be finished. The title comes with the territory. I’d just finally made it official.
There is something so primal, and visceral, and imperative about sitting guard at your child’s bedside when something has gone wrong. All the medical professionals and state-of-the-art monitors are no substitute for parking yourself next to your cub to hold off the dangers lurking beyond in the dark forest. Danger can come from the things we can see and sometimes from the things we can’t—microbes and antibodies and viruses and environmental toxins and the dealer pushing baggies of meth and crack in the shadows around the corner.
When we become parents, we are captives and keepers all in one. I remember standing beside the crib of this child as he slept, only a few days old. In the silent room, with the lights dimmed, I was hit by a tidal wave of emotion. “I adore you,” I thought. “I worship you. I would die to protect you.” That was twenty-five years ago. He’s married now. I still feel the same way.
Years ago I read an essay by Michael Kelly, the late Washington Post columnist who was killed in Iraq in 2003, and it has always stayed with me. Long before his death, he’d written a light-hearted yet poignant piece about parenting and what he called “the look,” that silly combination of worship and rapture that we wear when we gaze at our kids when they’re not looking, regardless of their age or even their personal grooming habits.
It captured, more eloquently that I ever could, that universal surge of pride and protection and tenderness that comes with bringing the next generation into the world. The only thing he left out was that feral “mother tiger” thing. The certainty that anything that threatens your cub has to make it across a vast and vigilant expanse of claws and teeth first.
It came into play a couple of times during this hospital stretch, and turned out to be good for a laugh or two … and, I think, some actual results.
Before the specialist came in for the consult, we had been handed off to a “hospitalist” to oversee the case during the stay at the hospital. Now this doctor may have done very well in medical school … but she still came up short on people skills. She wasn’t very good with tigers either. She was brusque, unsmiling, not very familiar with our situation, and dismissive of my questions and concerns to the point of rudeness.
“Hmmm,” this doctor sneered as she shot down one point of mine after another. “And you have no medical training …” What could I say? True… and yet I was still vigorously challenging some fundamental assumptions. So sue me.
The hospitalist finally left the room, still not cracking a smile. Not only had we balked at staying in this hospital for several more days of testing, we didn’t seem to take her medical opinion at face value either. My son and collectively exhaled in relief. “Geez, what a BITCH” we both said. I explained what had just happened.
“Honey, what you just saw was “the clash of the middle-aged Alpha females.
”
I’d like to report that I’d engaged in this epic test of wills while stylishly decked out in spike heels and a suit. But in fact I’d slept in my sweats on a hospital sofa the night before, and I had to beg a nurse for a spare toothbrush. I felt, and looked, like road kill. But I still had claws.
Vindication came a couple of hours later when the specialist finally came in and sorted things out. Jovial, quick-witted, and experienced, he deftly poked and prodded, quickly figured out the medical mystery that had brought us to the emergency room in the first place, and recommended a course of treatment I’d already suggested—and had rejected—by Dr. Grumpy.
“So,” he asked brightly as he gathered his notes and medical students. “Does this make the mother tiger happy?”
“PurrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR….” I replied.
My cub eventually returned to his place in the forest, which was his college dorm. I went back to my usual routine of trying to do too many things at once. But I still smile when I think of the way things played out.
If there’s any moral at all to this story, it’s straight up and pretty simple.
When the chips are down…put your money on the tiger.
I’ve introduced myself—and been introduced—in many different ways. I’ve been described as “the wife,” “the mother,” “the prosecutor,” “the writer,” “the utility person,” “the girlfriend,” “the mother of the bride,” and "the Hot Dog Fairy."
But this time, I was at the bedside of one of my children at an enormous university hospital, and when the specialist walked in, trailing a pair of medical students behind, I stuck my hand out in greeting, and announced my status so there would be no mistake.
“Hi, I’m Mary. I’m the mother tiger.”
I don’t know why it took me so long. It’s not like with four kids I’ve had any shortage of opportunities. I’ve sat at bedsides waiting for test results to come back, X-rays to be analyzed, abdomens to be palpated, surgery to be finished. The title comes with the territory. I’d just finally made it official.
There is something so primal, and visceral, and imperative about sitting guard at your child’s bedside when something has gone wrong. All the medical professionals and state-of-the-art monitors are no substitute for parking yourself next to your cub to hold off the dangers lurking beyond in the dark forest. Danger can come from the things we can see and sometimes from the things we can’t—microbes and antibodies and viruses and environmental toxins and the dealer pushing baggies of meth and crack in the shadows around the corner.
When we become parents, we are captives and keepers all in one. I remember standing beside the crib of this child as he slept, only a few days old. In the silent room, with the lights dimmed, I was hit by a tidal wave of emotion. “I adore you,” I thought. “I worship you. I would die to protect you.” That was twenty-five years ago. He’s married now. I still feel the same way.
Years ago I read an essay by Michael Kelly, the late Washington Post columnist who was killed in Iraq in 2003, and it has always stayed with me. Long before his death, he’d written a light-hearted yet poignant piece about parenting and what he called “the look,” that silly combination of worship and rapture that we wear when we gaze at our kids when they’re not looking, regardless of their age or even their personal grooming habits.
It captured, more eloquently that I ever could, that universal surge of pride and protection and tenderness that comes with bringing the next generation into the world. The only thing he left out was that feral “mother tiger” thing. The certainty that anything that threatens your cub has to make it across a vast and vigilant expanse of claws and teeth first.
It came into play a couple of times during this hospital stretch, and turned out to be good for a laugh or two … and, I think, some actual results.
Before the specialist came in for the consult, we had been handed off to a “hospitalist” to oversee the case during the stay at the hospital. Now this doctor may have done very well in medical school … but she still came up short on people skills. She wasn’t very good with tigers either. She was brusque, unsmiling, not very familiar with our situation, and dismissive of my questions and concerns to the point of rudeness.
“Hmmm,” this doctor sneered as she shot down one point of mine after another. “And you have no medical training …” What could I say? True… and yet I was still vigorously challenging some fundamental assumptions. So sue me.
The hospitalist finally left the room, still not cracking a smile. Not only had we balked at staying in this hospital for several more days of testing, we didn’t seem to take her medical opinion at face value either. My son and collectively exhaled in relief. “Geez, what a BITCH” we both said. I explained what had just happened.
“Honey, what you just saw was “the clash of the middle-aged Alpha females.
”
I’d like to report that I’d engaged in this epic test of wills while stylishly decked out in spike heels and a suit. But in fact I’d slept in my sweats on a hospital sofa the night before, and I had to beg a nurse for a spare toothbrush. I felt, and looked, like road kill. But I still had claws.
Vindication came a couple of hours later when the specialist finally came in and sorted things out. Jovial, quick-witted, and experienced, he deftly poked and prodded, quickly figured out the medical mystery that had brought us to the emergency room in the first place, and recommended a course of treatment I’d already suggested—and had rejected—by Dr. Grumpy.
“So,” he asked brightly as he gathered his notes and medical students. “Does this make the mother tiger happy?”
“PurrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR….” I replied.
My cub eventually returned to his place in the forest, which was his college dorm. I went back to my usual routine of trying to do too many things at once. But I still smile when I think of the way things played out.
If there’s any moral at all to this story, it’s straight up and pretty simple.
When the chips are down…put your money on the tiger.
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