Why I, Mama Bear, am seeking a divorce
Things between Papa Bear and I were never very good
Come in! Sit down. Have some tea. Do you like my new place? It's smaller than my old home but big enough for me and my son. Isn't that chair so soft? I've always wanted matching furniture. I guess it's a silver lining to this whole messy situation. Oh, please don't wait! The tea is nice and cool already. Unlike some bears, I detest boiling tea.
Sorry, I know I sound bitter.
I never thought I'd be a divorced bear at my age. When I married Bill, he seemed perfect. He supported my dreams and aspirations. We'd talk all night about my plans for an organic honey shop. Little did I realize how he'd change into a bear I barely recognized.
It started after we wed. He wanted to have a cub right away. When I suggested waiting, he, his mother, and half of our friends said I was being crazy. They told me that I'd see everything differently as soon as I had a cub. A few suggested I'd better get a move on, or he'd leave me.
Once my little boy was born, I admit I felt a strong connection. Yet I was still the same bear, ready to start my own business. Bill continued to change.
His demands continued along a disturbing trend. The cub was named "Baby" without anyone consulting me. He wanted to be called "Papa" and insisted that I go by "Mama" instead of "Lisa" like we were in some human kid's show. He wanted to be the alpha bear. He thought he had to show others he had control of his home domain. It was so embarrassing. But I loved him and thought he was going through some things, perhaps listening to one too many podcasts I won't mention by name. So I went along with it. Slowly but surely, my life became consumed with keeping the home comfortable, caring for the cub, and preparing the food.
Here's the thing: I'm not just Mama Bear, you know? I am Lisa-Who-Happens-To-Be-A-Mama-Bear. Or, if I must change my name, why can't I be Freelance Graphic Designer Bear? Or Organic Honey Shop Bear?
But losing my name was only one problem.
Papa Bear didn't care about what I liked. He had to have everything his way. If the soup weren't scalding hot when it got to the table, he'd send it back. He smashed a chair my father left me because it wasn't hard enough for, in his words, a real Papa. He denied it, but I'm positive it was him. I told my friends we slept in separate beds because we couldn't agree on how firm a mattress should be, but honestly, it was because I couldn't stand to be in the same bed as him.
He also didn't listen to my advice. I told him several times to install a security system. Or, at the very least, a lock for the door. The woods aren't safe and, as we've seen, police don't take our complaints seriously. Yet did he put a lock on the door? Nope!
I stayed with him for our son. Even while my husband and I fought behind closed doors, I did my best to make sure everything was just right for my baby. He loved his father, and I didn't want to ruin that. However, I realized I didn't want him to grow up in a household that enforced old-fashioned gender roles. Nor with someone who cared so little about our safety or his wife's needs.
I mean, I care about my baby's broken chair, but isn't it time that I took care of my shattered dreams?