back to the beavers

“We’ll send you back to the beavers…” 

As a child, when my dad became frustrated with me, I was told I would be sent back to the beavers. First born and strong willed, I believed I could do things by myself, my own way. When my stubborn independence grew particularly tiresome, I was told I came from the beavers and could be sent back any time.

Like little kids do, I adapted my imagination and didn’t really question the story. At any time I could be returned to these flat-tailed, sleek-furred, notoriously productive creatures who live in rivers amid mountain amphitheaters. In fact, the beavers wanted me back. My parents were actually protecting me, so I should trust them and be grateful.

Some kids come from storks. Others come from bellies. My origin was the elusive beaver.

I apparently thought my sister came from the beavers, too, because I am told that after she arrived three years later, I requested she be the one sent back to the beavers. 

When I was younger, I was actually scared of being returned to the beavers, but eventually I recognized it was some kind of joke I didn’t understand, an empty threat that would never happen. Which is probably why I persisted in thinking I knew best how to parent myself.

As I grew, I learned there is another meaning for the word beaver, but I didn’t put it all together until I was telling friends about my parents threatening to send me back to the beavers and they laughed at the word play.

When I asked my dad about it, he denied the double-entendre was his conscious invention. The idea of giving me back to the beavers was from a dream he had, where the long-tooth rodents showed up at our doorstep to reclaim me.

In a way, it was actually his subconscious mind that did the work of connecting beaver with “beaver.” Whether or not that is true, I don’t know. Memory and mythology being what they are, I suspect my dad may not even know at this point.

This is my back to the beavers adventure.