What Polar Bears Taught Me About Bad Parenting

[Author’s Note: Here are some good *non-fiction* resources on polar bears: Sea World and Polar Bears International and Wikipedia.]

For the past year, our lives have been overrun by polar bears.

Since “Borealis” is Latin for “Northern”, Ursus maritimus was an obvious choice for Bo’s “spirit animal” — and I don’t do these things by halves. This creature set the theme for my baby shower and featured prominently in my henna belly.

And the motif didn’t stop there. We have polar bear night lights and polar bear snow globes. We have polar bear bodysuits and polar bear stuffed animals. We even have a dog-sized polar bear and a polar-bear-esque dog. As far as we’re concerned, when it comes to polar bears, the more, the merrier.

So imagine my delight when I opened one of my mother’s library contributions — a beautifully-illustrated anthology of winter animal stories — to discover a polar bear, right there on the first page! I eagerly set about reading to my son as he repeatedly bludgeoned the floor with a wooden toy. (Alright, so it’s probably more accurate to say, “I eagerly set about reading to myself.”) Almost immediately, however, my fervor turned to concern and then to abject horror — not usually what you expect from a children’s book!

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll give you a quick summary of the plot line.

A baby polar bear dashes into a snow-filled clearing, searching for his mother. Alas, his calls elicit no answer, and he begins to construct a substitute snow mother for himself. Over the course of the day, he is joined by other juvenile Arctic creatures, including a wolf, reindeer, fox, and hare. Somehow, all of these creatures manage to work together to construct a lifelike snow bear for the little cub. As the sun sets, all the other baby animals’ mothers call them home, while the desolate polar bear cub is left to nestle up to his ice-cold surrogate mother for bedtime. Overnight, springtime arrives, and the snow bear melts, leaving Baby Polar Bear completely alone in a now-miraculously-verdant meadow. But then, just before morning, Momma Polar Bear ambles into the clearing, lays down beside her cub, and returns to sleep. Baby Polar Bear awakens to a familiar scent, and exclaims, “I was certain you would discover me!” (Paraphrased for copyright reasons.) The end. 

“Wait — what?” I exclaimed. My son briefly paused in his bludgeoning to shoot me a questioning look.

“That’s the end!?” I continued raging. “No, like, Cub Services follow-up? No post-traumatic tantrums from Baby Polar Bear? Everything is just fine and good? I call BS… ‘Bear Suspiciousness’.”

You may think that I was overreacting. My son certainly did. But let me clarify the charges, as I understood them:

• Prior to the beginning of the story, Momma Polar Bear — wittingly or unwittingly — allows Baby Polar Bear to escape from under her care.
• Despite the cub’s [albeit halfhearted] attempts to find his mother, she remains stunningly absent for most of the story.
• Thoroughly traumatized by his mother’s absence, Baby Polar Bear sets about creating a surrogate parent. [Note: Strangely, this plot element hearkens to the golden calf in Exodus 32. However, while that idol “replaced” a God who is never actually absent, the snow bear construction served as a substitute for a mother who was very truly gone — at least, in this fictional story.]
• Notably, the plight of Baby Polar Bear is so poignant and heartbreaking that predators such as wolves and foxes work alongside their natural prey — hares and geese, among others — in order to help the abandoned cub.
• And how abandoned is this cub? Well, upon finishing the snow construction, all his new “friends” leave! The cub is so forsaken that he is literally better off curling up with a block of ice.
• But wait — there’s more abandonment to come! Already left alone by both his mother and the other woodland creatures, Baby Polar is now also deserted by the one thing he thought he could count on: his ice mother. She melted right next to him, leaving in her wake the two worse things ever: being alone and waking up in a wet bed.
• At this point, Baby Polar Bear is so disheartened that I wouldn’t be surprised if, come morning, he just let himself float away on the springtime floods. However, it is at this moment — at the literal nadir of her cub’s short life — that Momma Polar Bear strolls into the meadow. And does she sweep him up in a dramatic ursine hug, covering him with licks and assuring him that they’ll never be apart again? No! After locating her cub, Momma Polar Bear goes back to sleep!
• Even after Baby Polar Bear wakes up to the joy of a returned parent, his mother doesn’t apologize or promise it won’t happen again! She neither validates his feelings nor calms his fears. So, in short, she is just as icy as was her replacement.

This list of grievances is pretty damning for sure. As my son shifted from bludgeoning the floor to bludgeoning me instead, I tried to think of how such an unfortunate series of events could transpire.

Both polar bears are hanging out at home. Since Momma Polar Bear didn’t bother to cub-proof the snow den, Baby Polar Bear is able to walk right out the door. His mother, busy texting a hot boar, doesn’t notice her cub’s departure. Eager for his first taste of the outside world, Baby Polar Bear frolics into a field and promptly forgets where he left his mother. Like any frightened child, he is unlikely to employ logic, choosing instead to cope by self-soothing. This coping taking the form of mother-substitution. While Baby Polar Bear industriously builds a full-size snow bear and adroitly recruits appropriate skilled labor, Momma Polar Bear is still chilling at home. At some point, of course, she realizes that the den is kinda quiet. She lumbers out into the wide world and is immediately distracted by the stirrings of small woodland creatures. Why not stop for a snack? she thinks. It’s been a long winter, after all. Once sated, Momma Polar Bear continues her disorganized search, eventually stumbling upon her son’s resting place. Looking to dodge the blame, she quietly sneaks into bed with him, hopeful that he won’t notice her belated arrival. When Baby Polar Bear wakes up, he exclaims over his mother’s presence, while she says… nothing! No apology. No explanation. No assurance. Nothing. 

Based on this potential series of events, Momma Polar Bear seems remarkably irresponsible. I sat there in my son’s nursery, positively fuming at this imaginary character. Who loses their only child for a full day? What, was she too proud to ask the other forest critters if they had encountered a lonely and terrified miniature of herself? And how did she even lose her cub in the first place?

Ugh. What a bad mother.

No sooner had I thought this, though, than my musings were interrupted by an angry wail. Borealis had slipped and knocked his head on the [thankfully carpeted] floor, and was now glaring at me and crying. I swept him up in a hug and apologized for letting him fall on my watch.

And as I comforted my son — my only child and my little polar bear — I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was being a little too harsh on Momma Polar Bear. I reframed my idea of how this [fictional] story might have “actually” happened. 

Momma Polar Bear gives birth to a single son in the maternity den that has been her home for the past several months. For a species that typically bears twins, the birth of a solitary child must be a blow. Maybe she’s of advanced maternal polar bear age. Maybe she needed polar bear fertility treatments to even conceive her single cub. Maybe she endured a stillbirth or a miscarriage in this pregnancy. Regardless of the reason, Baby Polar Bear is her only child. Momma Polar Bear nurses her lone son for months, quite literally nourishing him at the expense of her own body. As springtime approaches, she remains in a dormant state, waiting for the changing of the seasons to awaken her to springtime. Only, something terrible happens. Momma Polar Bear is supposed to lead the charge from their winter den, but somehow, Baby Polar Bear awakens first. Just a few months old, he doesn’t yet know the importance of sticking close to his mother, and so off he goes, wandering into the bright, sun-drenched Arctic. Baby Polar Bear suddenly discovers himself alone in an unfamiliar place, unsure of how he got there or how to get home. He’s desperate for some familiarity. Having lived his entire life in the company of only two things — snow and his mother — he decides to combine both elements into some semblance of home. Meanwhile, Momma Polar Bear awakens to discovers that her son — her only child — has disappeared. Imagine her horror. How could this have happened? she berates herself as she rushes out into the blinding world beyond her den. She hasn’t brushed her coat or taken off last season’s mascara. The neighbors are giving her funny looks, but she doesn’t care. The only thing that matters is finding her cub. At that moment, Baby Polar Bear isn’t too far away, but his scent is masked by his association with all the other baby animals — a congregation that must smell like a veritable feast to starving Momma Polar Bear. She hasn’t eaten anything for months, but her hunger can wait until her precious son is found. She desperately searches in every-widening loops, but as the daylight dwindles, so does her hope. Disconsolate, she begins the long trek home, telling herself that maybe she’ll be able to pick up her cub’s trail from their den. It’s false hope, however; the melting snow has obliterated any trace of her son’s path. But, as she nears the den, she catches the faintest whiff of a familiar scent. Cautiously hopeful, she sniffs again — yes, it’s really him! She barrels into the clearing, and her heart nearly stops as she finally finds her only cub. Overcome with emotion and unendurably tired, Momma Polar Bear ends her day-long search by curling up next to her son. And when Baby Polar Bear wakes up, and tells her that he knew she would come for him? Well, that wipes away the very last traces of her exhaustion and fear. 

I think I like this version of the story better. It is so easy for me to relate to a mother who is *trying her best* and yet still falls short.

With Borealis happily playing again, and the winter anthology back on the shelf, I decided that maybe Momma Polar Bear isn’t a bad mother after all. Maybe she’s a victim of circumstance, just as we all are to some extent. Sure, she might have lost her only child, but who am I to throw the first stone? If you’ve read Makin’ Bacon, you know that I am the most condemnable of all mothers. So maybe, rather than condemnation, Momma Polar Bear needs forgiveness… and she’s not the only one. I’m standing in line right behind her.

And that is the honest truth. I desperately need to receive grace — we all do. So, I guess I should be a little more willing to give grace, too — even, perhaps, to an absentee polar bear.