As I walked into class today after dropping my kids at the super groovy camp down the road, one of my students (whose child is also at the camp) told me that she'd seen a baby bear crossing the road at drop-off.
A what now?
Look, I can live with the snakes and the bugs, but bears? At a kids' camp? As Tina Fey writes in Bossypants, there's a reason why Sesame Street doesn't show the "Over, Under, Through" segment where the baby crawls through a construction site anymore. Because it's crazy.
I tried to put the image of my devil-may-care son running for a fly ball only to get mauled by Mama Bear out of my head as we talked our way through Act One of Othello. (I guess I should be grateful we weren't doing Winter's Tale, the only Shakespeare play to feature a character actually getting mauled by a bear.)
I have to say, a lot of Shakespeare has gotten much closer to the bone for me now that I have kids. He stages some brutal child murders, and my son is approaching the age when Shakespearean boys are especially at risk--that sweet, vulnerable seven-or-so age when he's not a baby, but still likes his sippy cup when no one but me can see him drinking it.
I don't have anything to ask the experts today. Unless they can tell me how to stop time. Or how to keep my kids from ever getting hurt by anybody or anything. Ever.
Anyone? Anyone? Prospero? Anyone?
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