On my bike at a stop sign, I was ping-ponging my neck, patiently waiting for the gap in traffic so that I could zip across the busy intersection. Two elite-athlete-looking cyclists in spandex pulled up to my left. Decked out in full kit and fully fit, they could have just come from a cover shoot for Men’s Health. The man closest to me began inching forward, nosing his front tire into the stream of traffic—staking his lane claim—and the fast car approaching seemed to have no intention of stopping. (A game of chicken, perhaps.) I imagined the worst, and I, the one-armed, schleppy-dressed, post-menopausal woman, instinctively threw out my good arm in front of Lance Armstrong’s chest like any good momma bear, like my mom used to do in the front bench seat of our Oldsmobile, seatbelt or not, and like I did with my kids.
A few minutes later, and a few blocks away, a younger momma bear pushing a double stroller to maximum capacity, along with two little walkers, was attempting to cross a slightly less-busy intersection, but still: Demonstrating common superwoman momma badassery, she employed every conceivable body part (ie. leg connected to a foot like a hook), as she singlefootedly wrangled her four cubs to safely.
Sometimes we momma bears stay in our lane, sometimes we nose in.
I held my children’s hands as we crossed the street. I taught them how to look all ways.
We do our best and surrender the rest.
A reenactment photo, on an alternate, quiet street. (Don’t try this at home.)
Some tattered things are beautiful.
