I have been married to a wonderful woman for 14 years now. I know we have what many of you would consider a young relationship. There's so much for us to discover about ourselves still, and there are innumerable things we may never understand about each other.
My wife, Chandra Lynn, is the epitome of class. She is soft-spoken wherever appropriate and fashioned with a pleasant elegance. She is organized. She remembers everyone's name, spouse, children and work place. She is good to me and too good for me. On our first date, we went to a Thai restaurant and she asked for chopsticks. I knew, at that point, that she was out of my league, but I was determined to rise to the occasion.
She is the type of woman many (who don't know her) would consider demure and passive, unless she is watching one of our children play sports.
When Chandra Lynn is sitting in the bleachers at the football field or basketball court, she adopts the persona she calls "Mama Bear."
I should explain that Mama Bear is not only concerned with her own cubs, but also any other cubs in the pack. Once Mama Bear is loose, you should not expect chopsticks and elegance. You should not expect anything of her except that she will protect her cubs, and anything standing in her way will have to be moved. She will not sit silently letting an injustice go unnoticed.
This part of my wife -- the crusader for justice and protector of the innocent -- surprised me, to say the least. I remember thinking, on several occasions, "This woman is going to get me into a fight." But I know that she will always have the courage to speak up for what is right. She doesn't care who hears or who's uncomfortable. I used to try to convince her to look the other way, but one day something assured me that looking the other way will never do for Mama Bear.
Collin, our oldest son, was playing football with a traveling team of seventh-graders. After an early continental breakfast on a cold, damp November morning, all six members of my family made our way to the football field in Tulsa where the contest would occur. Zavion was around 11 months old, Aidan was 5 years old, and Brenden was 8. We all sat on the cold bleachers and bundled together with blankets. My son's team was confident before the day started, but we all quickly realized that our boys were outmatched. They couldn't do anything offensively, and they had no defense capable of stopping their powerful and talented counterparts.
In a move of unparalleled tastelessness, one of the opposing team's "assistant coaches" began to heckle our fans from the field. The day before, he had apparently heard some of our players' parents telling the kids that they'd be able to beat his team and "They aren't so tough." He'd launched into an assault that lasted several minutes, and no one stopped him -- although some did try. Some parents passive-aggressively spoke up, but he shut them down, which seemed to fuel him. Chandra Lynn grew more visibly irritated as she sat holding Baby Zavion -- dressed in a puffy, red coat and hood and mittens. My wife and I traded comments under our breath as we listened to the buffoonery. Fewer people challenged him as time went by. The man soon turned his attention away from the now unresponsive crowd and started yelling at the outmatched boys themselves. It was at this point that Mama Bear began to peek her head out of the cave.
I think he had started into the second insult directed at the boys when my sweet wife abruptly stood and said, "Hold the baby." Once my little, red package was securely in my grasp, I watched as my wife marched diagonally down the bleachers, straight to this man. I knew there was no reasoning that was going to persuade Mama Bear to come back. I'm sure I didn't speak it, but every fiber in my being was screaming, "I know she didn't just give me this baby and walk down there," but there she was, having a very animated conversation.
I couldn't tell you everything she was saying, but there was a lot of finger pointing and head bobbing. It was a very familiar spectacle, like what I used to see when my own mother was upset with me. As his volume decreased, her words intensified. And much like a little boy, his final retort was something like, "Well, they started it."
My wife turned and walked back up the bleachers, back to her cave. That man didn't say another word. I asked her what she'd said to him. She told me she asked him if HIS mother would be upset if she'd come all this way to watch her son play and some man was yelling at him from the sideline.
I guess that man had a Mama Bear, too.
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Robert Honeycutt is the office manager at The Weekly Vista. His email address is [email protected]. The opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 10/26/2016