As I was pregnant with my first I would contemplate the kind of mother I wanted to be. Hell, I contemplate still the kind of mother I would like to be.
Then, of course, there is the mother I actually am.
As with most things: reality and daydreams seldom align.
Just look at her! She’s so regal. Completely in control. Gorgeous. Refined. Elegant. Lethal. No way you mess with her cub. You’d be a damn fool. Right?
So that’s my dream.
Here’s my reality:
That, friends, is a mama bear trying to get her rascal of a cub out of a tree. Admire the utter lack of grace she shows as she attempts to bend the tree down and rescue her delightfully foolish offspring.
Oh sure, she gets the job done. But I mean…
The tiger is always so composed. The bear…well…she looks tired, doesn’t she? Bedraggled, even? And don’t we all?
I’m not done yet.
Look at this snarl:
Fearsome. Intense. Nobody messes with mama.
And the bear? My reality?
I mean, sure, you still don’t want to mess with her. Her teeth are sharp enough. But…as fierce as she is she cannot help her awkwardness showing, can she? It’s just… She’s tough, of course. She’s trying. She’s all oomf and no class.
She’s no tiger.
I’d like to be a classy broad.
One more: Look at how tigers sleep:
Still majestic. Graceful. Poised, even.
That’ll about sum it up. There is just no majesty when your spirit animal is a bear.
I’m learning to embrace it and be okay with it. But some days. Some days, my friends. It would be nice to have the grace of a tiger.