I’m Fight. He’s Flight. Part II

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They say there are two kinds of people: those who fight and those who flee.

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Though I may have the fight response, I am by nature a pacifist. I abhor violence in just about any form.  I don’t enjoy confrontation (contrary to what my angry mouth as a teenager/ young adult may have indicated).   I hate guns.
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But I come from a long line of folks who dig in their heels in times of crisis. I remember learning how to ski as a young kid (maybe 7 or 8 years old); I was doing my pizza wedge down the mountain when I got clobbered out of nowhere by someone doing approximately 800 miles per hour down the mountain.  I lost my skis, my poles, my hat, my goggles, even one of my BOOTS came off.  Total yard sale.  I was lucky I didn’t have a serious injury.
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My dad had been skiing right behind me and had seen the whole thing.  I remember him virtually levitating out of his bindings, offing his gloves with one swift flick, and decking the speed demon right in the mouth.  I remember this because the guy landed about a foot from where I was sitting and shaking my head, trying to make sure it was still attached to my body.   If memory serves, this whole scene happened and was over before the snow even settled from the collision.
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That’s the way it is with fight or flight.  You can’t choose it.  It just happens.
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Let me be clear; it’s not always a violent thing.  The fight response, I think, is what triggers people to run into burning buildings or intervene in a bad car accident.  For example, the very same man who decked the speedy skier is also the guy who, at 65 years old, ran to the aid of a stranger and lifted a golf cart up by himself to free the guy who had been pinned underneath it.
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My fight response only kicks in when I’m in protective mode.  If I am personally in danger, like when attacked by a stranger wielding a chainsaw for example, I get absolutely paralyzed.  Can’t do a thing.
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But God help you if you threaten my family or my loved ones.
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If I get a hint, even a whiff, of a threat against my family something takes over me.  It’s not like I want to hurt anyone, it’s just that I know I would if I had to.
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Over the holidays this past year my family was discussing what we would do if someone broke into our respective homes while we were inside.  My sister and mom, like my wonderful husband, have the flight response.  I wasn’t surprised to learn that their reaction would be to the get the kids and get the heck out of the house.
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During this discussion, we learned that both my brother (Chuck) and my dad keep wooden bats under their beds for just such an occasion.  I don’t doubt for one second that if someone were to break into their home(s), there would be a confrontation before, during, or after everyone else was removed to safety.  I’m not saying the bat would be used as a weapon; I’m just saying it’s possible.
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My reaction to this conversation surprised everyone.  After all, I’m the one that would never allow a gun in my home.  I won’t even allow my kids to play in homes with guns.  I am pro gun control and whole heartedly anti violence.  But if you break into my home while my children are inside, you aren’t going to get the pacifist ‘me’. In fact, just the THOUGHT of someone threatening my family makes me angry.  It makes me the “you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry” kind of angry.
My complexion hasn’t been the
same since I turned 30.
So when I heard that my bro and dad keep wooden bats in the bedroom, I didn’t gasp at their caveman side.  No, I told my husband, “I want one!”
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Don’t get me wrong; in the unlikely event that someone breaks into our home, my first thought will be to get my kids out.  But my second thought might be to kick a little ass.  Is that so wrong?
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The epilogue to this little vignette is that my husband (who SO gets me) took my request for a bat to a whole new level.  He scoured the internet for ideas to trump the Louisville slugger.  And oh boy, did he find one.
If this nightstand isn’t a double shot of awesome sauce,
I don’t know what is.

 

You didn’t know I was a Viking, did you?  Oh yes. And it turns out I’m not alone…

 

Like mother, like daughter.

 

 

Suffice it to say that if anyone messes with our house, they are in for a surprise in the form of a chubby, shield-and-club-wielding soccer mom, followed closely by a fearless and feisty toddler.  Bring it.

 

 

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