Mama Bear at the Playground: When Instinct Takes Over

There was an incident yesterday at an indoor playground that I can’t shake. Even as I write this, I’m still wrestling with how I handled it. My response wasn’t rational, measured, or thought out—it was pure mama bear instinct.

A mom friend and I had taken our kids to an indoor playground to burn off some cabin fever. We’ve been there several times without issue. It’s a massive space with sky-high jungle gyms that once intimidated me as much as they did my kids. At first, I wasn’t sure my little ones were ready for such an enormous, chaotic place. But after a few visits, they got the hang of it and began asking to go back. So, there we were again, a typical Saturday: noisy, bustling, kids of all ages running wild, and even a few brave adults climbing the larger-than-life slides.

I’m not a helicopter mom by any stretch. When my five-year-old comes to me to complain that another kid pushed him or got in his way, my go-to response is, “Ignore them. If it keeps happening, tell them to stop. And if they still won’t stop, you have the right to defend yourself.” In our house, the rule is simple: Never throw the first punch, but stand up for yourself if you need to. Right or wrong, that’s the approach we’ve chosen to teach our kids.

As my friend and I sat at a table, taking in the chaos and the ear-piercing noise of kids burning energy, I noticed my five-year-old and three-year-old climbing to the top of a bungee tower. They stood there, frozen, waiting for the perfect moment to make their way down amidst the older kids free-falling through the tower with reckless abandon. When the crowd thinned, my oldest found his footing and began to climb down. My youngest, however, stayed at the top, clutching the corners of the tower with fear in his eyes.

That’s when I saw him: an older boy who had scrambled back up the tower. He started poking at my three-year-old, intimidating him until my son retreated further into the corner. Then, it escalated. The boy dropped to all fours, barking aggressively in my child’s face, cornering him, and reducing him to tears.

And that’s when I snapped.

I sprang to my feet, my voice cutting through the room with a commanding, booming tone that left no room for misinterpretation.

“NO. STOP RIGHT NOW. THAT IS MY CHILD, AND YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM. HE IS A LITTLE BOY! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

The boy froze, wide-eyed and stunned. He backed away quickly, but in the deafening silence that followed, I realized my voice hadn’t just stopped him—it had stopped everything. The room, once filled with the chaotic noise of dozens of kids, had gone quiet. All eyes were on me.

My youngest was now stuck in the highest corner of the tower, sobbing, too afraid to move. My older son ran up to me, pulled on my shirt, and said, “I’m going to get him, Mom.” With a determination I’ve never seen, he sprinted up the tower, faster than I thought possible, and brought his little brother safely back down.

What shocked me was that the boy’s parents never approached me. They didn’t apologize, didn’t check on the situation—nothing. The boy kept his distance from my kids for the rest of the afternoon, and any time he caught me looking, he straightened up quickly. At one point, I saw him try to jump on another young kid coming down the tower. I walked over, locked eyes with him, and firmly said, “Hey.” He jumped back and backed away.

I try to remember that we don’t know what kids go home to. I thought about that a lot yesterday. Maybe this boy is dealing with something I’ll never understand. But I also thought about the countless stories my friends have shared of their kids coming home in tears after being bullied. Why is it ever deemed acceptable for one child to dominate or torment another?

On the way home, I reminded my kids of a simple rule: If I ever hear of you bullying or making fun of another child, you’ll lose every privilege you have. End of story.

Motherhood has a way of humbling you. I used to think the early years were tough, but the more I talk to moms sending their kids into the jungles of kindergarten and beyond, the more I realize these challenges only grow. Yesterday, in that jungle gym, I felt like I was navigating one of those moments myself.

It made me think of June Osborne from The Handmaid’s Tale. In one scene from the last season, she’s leaving the ballet and stands in the city center, frozen, as she sees a brief glimpse of her daughter Hannah on a screen. That flicker of recognition, that raw maternal pain of seeing her child just out of reach, is so visceral. While my circumstances are nowhere near as harrowing, that moment resonates. Watching my child in distress, feeling powerless yet compelled to act, brought out a primal instinct I didn’t even know I had.

Motherhood has this way of taking you by surprise. Before I had kids, I’d hear parents say, “One day you’ll understand,” and I’d brush it off. But they were right. You can’t understand until you experience it—until you feel that overwhelming, gut-wrenching protectiveness that takes hold of you when you’re a parent. It’s primal. It’s an innate, unshakable force that I believe is felt by all species. It’s powerful, and it’s terrifying.

The fear of losing your child or seeing harm come to them isn’t something you’re ever really prepared for. It’s a fear that sits quietly in the background until it’s triggered, and then it becomes all-consuming. It’s a reminder of the fragility of life and the fierce responsibility we carry as parents. The love we have for our children is raw and unrelenting, and with it comes a strength we never knew we had—but also a vulnerability we never anticipated.

Sometimes, being a mom feels like being in a constant state of vigilance—part protector, part negotiator, part disciplinarian. But above all, it’s about love. Unrelenting, fierce, and unapologetic love.

Yesterday wasn’t my proudest moment, but it was an honest one. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.