Waiting for Mom
The baby birds in the nest next to my kitchen door are getting ready to fledge. I've been watching their mom, a patient and thrifty song thrush, deliver grubs and worms to the nest, quickly depositing her bounty in a yawning mouth and flying off again. She flies low, diving almost to the ground, before lifting into the bush where her nest is carefully hidden. From everyone but me—I finally got a photo, waiting until she'd left her babies tucked snug in their cocoon.
I worry about predators. There are blackbirds, magpies, and jays in the garden, who enjoy snatching the peanuts we leave on the bird table. So I've cut down on the peanuts, hoping they'll find another grazing ground for now. It's a calculated risk: they may find the fledglings more enticing than the missing peanuts.
But so far, the dog and I haven't had to chase away any "bad birds" like we did in Albuquerque, where we guarded a nest of swallow chicks from the jays, summer after summer.
My fledgling is coming home tomorrow. Daughter Number Two arrives home for summer vacation. I was heartbroken when I left her at Heathrow back in August. But I've adjusted, discovered a life that doesn't involve being at the beck and call of a teenager. My own whims seemed foreign at first, indulgent and unnecessary. But I've quickly learned the value of my own schedule, my own desires.
In one of life's gentle ironies, I recall another bird nest, with baby birds who took their maiden voyage on the same morning Daughter Number Two set off for her last day of kindergarten. A pair of sparrows had nested in the porch lamp, and when I returned from the bus stop, depositing my youngest for her last kindergarten bus trip, I noticed the babies flying off. Symbolic, I thought sadly, as the school bus braked in the next block.
My baby is flying home—her plane takes off any minute now.
