Motherhood is for the Birds

While herding my kids from the house to the car last week, a bird flew out of our garage, whizzing by our heads as we all screamed in unison. (Good morning, neighbors.)

“What is a bird doing in  – “ I started.

Then I saw it.  A nest tucked in the rafters, looking suspiciously made of guinea pig hay and strands of pink Easter grass, which pretty much tells you everything you need to know about us.

Also, I forget to close the garage door. For weeks at a time.

I thought about trying to move the nest. It’s the Upper Valley; we have many fine trees.  I climbed up and inspected it, only to find this:

And my mother heart went, “D’awww.”

So now we have The Bird in our lives, and we are invested in her journey to motherhood. Meaning, she's holding us all hostage.

I park outside so as not to disturb her. The kids make up stories about what she does while we’re away (not to project, but I believe she watches "The Price is Right" and eats ice cream out of the carton). When I need something from the garage, I think to myself, “wait, The Bird is probably in there.” Yes, you idiot, she probably is, but sometimes you just need the dang weed whacker.

So I walk to the garage and have with The Bird a silent dialogue that goes something like this:

Me: Hi. I need to get in here.

Bird: You’d better not.

Me: I swear I won’t touch your eggs. Total respect for what you’re doing up there. I just need the –

Bird: Don’t come any closer!

Me and Bird together: PLEASE DON’T KILL ME (as I sprint into the garage and Bird dives out of it).

Your babies better be adorable, Bird. Because we’re all in this together.