I’ve got something special to share today — a short story by my good friend Lee Hobbs. Lee and I, as well as his wife Julie, worked together back in our twenties. Lee’s always read my stories, and I’m happy to share one of his with you. Feed the Bears is a sociological survey about the perils of living with a pregnant woman, especially if she gets the munchies.
If you were to ask Brent Kandra, Donna Munson, Stephan Miller, and maybe even Timothy Treadwell what insight they could give someone about contact with bears they would warn of their unpredictability and the perils of getting too friendly with the seemingly gentle, but powerful giants.
I can only speculate because they were all bear lovers who were fatally mauled (and in the case of Donna and Timothy eaten) by bears. Timothy is only a maybe because he was batshit crazy as he made amply clear in the 2005 documentary Grizzly Man where his life of living with a sloth (look it up) of grizzly bears in the Alaskan Bush was filmed. (Filming was cut short.)
Now take the same question and replace the word “bears” with “pregnant woman” and ask the question to the spouses of the pregnant woman.
In many to most cases the answer is the same. Many similarities can be drawn between living with bears and living with a pregnant woman.
Both behave with extreme unpredictability and are driven by food. Attacks in both cases are often caused by food related agitations. The victim often has food that is not being shared or not shared at an acceptable rate.
The seemingly docile creature becomes enraged and attacks the unsuspecting victim without remorse. The victim mistakenly believes (or in some cases believed) their bond with the beast is above all, and in most cases is therefore blindsided by the attack.
With our second pregnancy I mistakenly thought I understood the situation. I had experienced the mood swings, the threats, the vehemence…this time I would not be caught with my pants down (figuratively, literally would only provoke her).
Our fridge was stocked with multiple pints of Chunky Monkey and Cherry Garcia and I never left the house without a pocketful of gummy bears or strips of bacon.
With the first pregnancy I also learned about safety in numbers, the adage, “you don’t have to be faster than the bear, just faster than the person next to you” rang true. This time would be different I repeated to myself. (So naive.)
Pregnancy to Julie was what a car crash was to David Banner. Her typical even-keeled high tolerance (married to me) self would transform into a hormonal beast not sure where to target her sporadic fits of rage. Like a bear in captivity everything seemed copacetic one moment and then it didn’t.
If still alive, Stephan Millar would likely attest this classic captive bear behavior. My survival memory has buried most of the remembrances in a dark closet of my cerebrum double locked beyond recollection. Most, but not all.
During our second pregnancy I was working extreme hours on a project that made hormonal outbreaks seem pretty normal. Around the same time we had just bought a single serve pod coffee maker. Julie believed the warnings about caffeine during pregnancy were wives’ tales and used an article she scoured the internet for to back her claims.
I had my doubts as I watched our firstborn who experienced a caffeinated womb bounce off around the room like a cartoon character, but I also knew about sleeping bears. So the compromise was a cup of coffee every other day. Those cups are what she lived for. That little pod machine became the most important member of our family.
Our son Jackson was two and not much of a talker, but he knew how to brew a cup of coffee from start to finish using the pod coffee maker. Like a clothed chimp he would push a chair over, climb up on it, grab a cup, insert the pod and go to work.
Each flavor had a different color so we could ask for a brown and get a cappuccino, order a yellow and get vanilla. The only color that was not ever requested was green, the dreaded decaf. In time he learned the associated flavors so instead of ordering a purple we could now ask for a French Roast.
Julie insisted this was the behavior of a prodigy. I questioned her assessment insisting that prodigies talked more than grunted, but who was I to say. Then one day the prodigy talk stopped. I had just sat down at my desk after an angry work meeting when I received the daily angry call.
“I am so pissed I can’t even talk,” Julie said.
“What’s the matter? Are you ok?” I asked in my most soothing voice.
“That little fucker!”
“Oh no, what did he do?” I asked fearing the worst.
She took a moment to gather herself and responded with what sounded like clinched teeth, “He made me a decaf when I asked for a French Vanilla”.
I immediately started laughing hysterically which only incensed her more.
“I know he did it on purpose! He knew I wanted French Vanilla!”
I caught my breath, trying not to laugh sputtered, “He is two!”
“You obviously don’t understand what I am up against here!” Click.
“Hello?…Hello?…”
On nights following calls like that on I knew to stop at the bakery on the way home. Before entering I would crack the door and toss in the bakery goods inside like the SWAT team tossing a tear gas canister into a terrorist hideout. Other nights were not so predictable.
We live a half block from a street with a stretch of restaurants, bars, and various small businesses. It was one of the draws for us. What we didn’t anticipate was the number of solicitors that we get as a result.
One night we just started watching TV after an especially painful bedtime routine for our son when we get a knock at the door around 9. The knock was the first domino to fall as it triggered our dogs to bark which in turn woke up our just fallen asleep child which roused the sleeping bear.
When I open the door I faced a lady who was clearly homeless.
She was probably in her late forties, but looked much older presumably due to a hard life. Her tan leathery face was framed by strands of greasy blonde and gray hair that stuck out like straw from her stained John Deere trucker hat. She was missing a tooth and wore layers of dirty clothes covered with a beige overcoat that was probably originally white. She held a plastic purple purse and had a pull cart of some sort stacked with plastic bags loaded with homeless treasure at the foot of our driveway.
When I asked if I could help her she asked if she could buy a bottle of water for a dollar in a manner that made talking seem like a struggle. Her eyes darted around and after the request continued to incessantly mumble-talk to herself.
I instantly felt bad for her and as with others in her situation wondered how she got there. I told her to wait a minute while I got her some bottled water. I return from a short absence to find Julie “expressing her feelings” to our porch guest.
Julie “explained” how the kids was woken up, how no one should be knocking on a stranger’s door after 8, and then followed the talk up by loudly asking, “What are you thinking?”
If Julie would have taken a breath she would have realized exactly what the crazy homeless lady was thinking because she hadn’t quit mumble-talking since she knocked at our door, “sorry, sorry…water…night…shamrocks…sorry…water…dollar…dogs…door knob…water….sorry…thank you…dollar…little dogs…stars…”.
Like a cage fighting referee stepping in after a knockout, I get between them and sent them both to neutral corners. Crazy Pregnant to Jackson’s room, Crazy Shopper back on her way.
I gave Crazy Shopper a couple bottles of water where she then insisted that I take the dollar. I thanked her for the offer, but refused her E. Coli dollar. She shrugged her shoulders, put the dollar back in her purple purse, and headed to the sidewalk muttering something about water and sheep.
Crazy Pregnant put the kid back down and when she returned explained how recently she saw a segment on 20/20 about neighborhood robbery rings. As she is describing the news report it becomes abundantly clear to her that Cray Shopper was part of a complex robbery scheme. Obviously Crazy Shopper was using classic diversion techniques while her robber gang associates were fleecing us.
Not thinking I offered the “she might just be insane” explanation, but this was quickly shot down. For the sake of hopefully getting to sit back down to watch Housewives of Somewhere I agreed that this issue required further investigation. We couldn’t resume watching TV until I took the flashlight and completed a property inspection of our front porch.
Watering can – check. Chair with hole it – check. Flower pot – check. Yes, it was all there. We had just dodged a bullet.
I reported my findings and suggested that maybe our dogs threw off their timing. Maybe this seemed feasible or maybe hunger pains took precedence because she turned the TV back on as she headed for the kitchen. Later in the night (after chips, chocolate, cookies, and a burrito) Crazy Pregnant needed to get something from her car. On her return she found a dollar sticking out of our mailbox that hung next to the front door.
“That lady must have been insane.” Crazy Pregnant plainly stated, “Doesn’t she know you can buy a case of water at Costco for $5?”
I nodded as I handed her a pint of Cherry Garcia and whispered in agreement, “Fucking Crazy.”
The End
What did you think of Feed the Bears by my buddy Lee Hobbs?
Hopefully Julie doesn’t send him to sleep on the sofa for allowing me to publish it.
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