And I even have all of my eyeballs

In a day or two the birds will be gone. I'll walk to the window as I've done dozens of times during the day for the past 10 days and the nest will be empty. I'll pause, I'll wish they were there, and then I'll go about my day. I'll move the dishes, clean the table, sweep the floor, wash the children, count to three, be stern, be loving, be a mother.

I'll look for something else to watch, to notice and to let go. But I'll miss the birds.

You knew that there would be at least one picture...

....but this will probably be the only one because mother bird nearly pecked my eyeballs out while I was taking this. Though I can't say I blame her.

I'm thinking of naming the babies. I like Percy. Maybe Otto or Otis.

Or maybe I'll see what Aidan and Cole think. I'm guessing that Cole will offer up Ivan or Coco Crisp. And Aidan...probably something like Rose or Princess or Mrs. Bird. She recently named a stuffed lamb Whipped Cream, Whipty for short. So the birds might end up with porn star names, if we're lucky.

Fecal Sac is Fun to Say

Today I am able to count them. Four babies in the nest. FOUR. Four always hungry mouths to feed. Four pooping babies.

While I am watching the father bird feed his beaky children, I catch sight of a fecal sac. Food in. Food out. A tidy white package emerges, one that doesn't end up in the land fill. These robins clearly aren't part of the global waste problem.

If the words fecal sac, in and of themselves do not tell you enough, go here.

A Discovery

Her muted red breast feathers bristle. Angry and cat-like, she's ready to pounce. Chirping loudly, he dive bombs to protect the nest. I casually chat with the neighbor as territorial war cries erupt around us. We watch the birds, she of the occasional buxom breast and he of the tiny black toupee. She carries a wiggly insect in her mouth. He chirps and warns. The pair flits and flies from tree to wire, to stone wall and back again until we've walked away from the sprawling Rhododendron that grows alongside the house.

Once inside I look through the dining room window, follow a bit of white balloon string up from the ground into a small nest resting on the branches mid bush. I watch and wait. When the mother bird flies in with a worm, three, fuzzy, closed-eyed birds stretch their gangly necks, tiny mouths open and waiting. Their mother drops food into each gaping mouth and proceeds to sit on her babies. She nestles, stands up, sits down again, a bit of fuzz peeking out around her side feathers. She does not look comfortable.

She seems to be looking for something. And waiting, if not patiently. The look in her eye, the one eye that I can see, says that it's five o'clock and that he's due home any time. In a few minutes she perks, stands and flies and her partner enters the nest, perches himself at its edge. He feeds the seemingly starving birds. Again they strain and crane to find the food. Again the food is dropped into their persistent, hungry mouths. Again the father bird flies out. Again the mother bird flies in, sits, waits. Sits and waits.

I show Aidan the birds. Then I show Cole the birds. I watch the birds for the better part of an hour. I watch the flying, the chirping, the feeding, the sitting, the perching, the flying, the feeding. The baby birds require constant care. I watch. And I watch. I feel tired. And exhilarated. All at once I feel tired and exhilarated by what I have seen.

Dino Makeover

Isn't it cute?

Dinosaur wrangling by Aidan E.

Somebody's Baby

Yesterday in the car on the way to school Cole said, "Mommy, I want to be in the army when I get bigger." In zero to 60 I went exorcist spinning like and erupted into what was possibly one of my worst parenting moments. Ever. Fire-spitting, she-bear emerged to protect my baby, the one I envisioned taking a bullet or a bomb while fighting in a war, a war that I couldn't or wouldn't or shouldn't believe in. I started driving to Canada, right then. Forget school. Must get to Canada. Must. Save. My. Baby.

Though I could tell the Internet about the age inappropriate things that I said to my almost four year old, I'm choosing instead to tell about why an innocent statement from a little boy who doesn't know much about guns and armies and wars unleashed such sadness and fury. It was in this instant that I reacted to over four years of war in Iraq, to my own quiet escalation during this four years, to almost daily reports of the rising death toll, to a president's irresponsible actions. It was in this instant that I realized how many people have lost people they love as a result of this war.

And for what? I know that it's not simple. That war, when to fight and when to not, is not simple. I believe that war, at times, is necessary. But I am astounded by the extreme arrogance and naiveté and obstinance of our leader. I'm angry. And filled with an indescribable sadness for the mothers and fathers who have lost their babies to this war.

But for the Blood

There is an irreconcilable difference between what I watched and what I lived. Between what I watch and what I live. Perhaps this is the problem. Or the answer. The one that comes through the phone line. Or through the tone dead e-mail. Or her voice when she asks, but doesn't ask. The earnestness in his voice, but not the desire to know that what is can't be.

In four hours I must have heard something along the lines of "family is everything" enough times to believe that this is so. This religion, my religion says that family is everything. Into the pores, oozing out, family. Family. "Families can be together forever. Through heavenly Father's plan. I always want to be with my own family. And the lord has shown me how I can. The lord has shown me how I can."

I've been passed along another message, a different one. And it says that families aren't everything, or maybe only sometimes. Perhaps I should write a song about it. Or at least a sentence fragment. Something that says there are other things that are important, more important. Like appearances. And papers. And books. And hair. And skin. And denial. And who. And where. And how much.

He is out in the world. And I am out in the world. And they are out in the world. And there is pain. The pain of knowing that this is how it is. And this is how it will be. There will always be family. In birth and in death we will be. Not together. But apart but for the blood. The blood isn't separate. And it will never be.

A couple o' links

This is one of the coolest alphabet books I've seen in a long while. Click on flickr slideshow to see text.

This is also worth taking a look at--especially if you're someone who often finds yourself talking about poop.