Spring as sprung, the tulips are in bloom, the bees and ants are working away, and the lilac tree outside my window is heavy with purple blossoms. And every time I see that tree, I breathe a little prayer to a merciful God: please, Lord, no robins this year.
We had robins last year. I was utterly delighted: right there outside our very window, something better than any science kit or home school nature unit. There were the busy parents, manically dashing two and fro, following some blind compulsion to build and prepare. With baffling skill and speed, the nest quickly formed, and it was a beautiful thing: round as a cup, solid and lovely, a work of art.
And then the eggs. Four of them appeared one day, in that unmatchable shade of blue. We felt as if the whole thing were a gift to our family. The children couldn’t get enough of check out these perfect little eggs. We would all file outside and I would hold the kids up one by one, so they could gasp and coo over the secret little treasure in our tree.
One thing bothered me a little bit: every time we got close to the fragile little nest, the mother bird would fly up in a panic . . . and rush out of there as fast as she could. ”Some mother,” I would mutter. ”Lucky for you we’re not a cat! Aren’t you even going to try to peck us?” But she would just hide herself in a nearby bush, keeping herself safe and letting the eggs fend for themselves.
Humph. Well, she’s just a bird. I knew I was taking the situation too personally, and that robins lay several eggs every year for a reason: they’re not all going to make it, and that’s a fact.
Still, I got madder and madder at this lousy mother bird. Only a bird, sure, sure, but WHAT KIND OF A MOTHER ARE YOU? I suppose you’ll just go ahead and LAY SOME MORE EGGS if these ones get ruined through your cowardice and neglect! Who cares, they’re just your CHILDREN, that’s all — why go to any effort? If there had been some Egg Protective Services hotline, I would have had it on speed dial.
But it just got worse. When the baby birds were born . . . they were horrible. Just painful to look at. I don’t mean fragile, I don’t mean vulnerable or unfinished-looking — they were monstrosities. Every scrap of their essence spelled out H-E-L-P-L-E-S-S in a way that was unendurable to me. I forget if I was pregnant at the time, or trying to fatten up a baby who wouldn’t nurse properly, or if I was worried about an older kid who was struggling in school, or what, but every time I looked out this window, all I could see was this dreadful image of my own vocation in that smelly little nest. It held the two indisputable facts of the life of a mother:
Number one, you must protect them.
Number two, you cannot protect them.
So. One day they began to fly. Sort of. They left the nest, anyway. I couldn’t keep myself from trying to keep track of these babies, because their parents were so lousy at it. One, two, three — where’s number four? WHERE’S NUMBER FOUR? Ah, there you are. Now where has the grayish one gone? All right, he’s over in the driveway. Once I stopped the lawnmower just in time before running over one fledgling, thrashing around helplessly in the tall grass.
Two of the little ones learned how to flutter around pretty well, and within a day or two, they were hopping from limb to limb in the tree in a convincingly birdlike way. They had puffed up and feathered out, and their terrible nakedness was hidden and forgotten. So far, so good.
The third baby bird got hit by a car. Its little body flapped in the wind of the traffic for a day, and then something hungry carried it away.
And the fourth one was just gone. I don’t know what happened to it. Maybe it learned how to fly really quickly, and set out in a brave and forthright manner to start a family of its own, and it was healthy and successful, and sang happy songs every day. I assume that this is what happened.
Is it wrong to pray for birds? If I pray for those little robins, I think God will know what I really mean.
Please, Lord, no more robins this year.
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They will probably be back—they might be wimpy, but they are territorial in that way. Your yard is THEIR yard. They’ve claimed it.
I love this one.
I once had a bird actually attack me while I was innocently on my way to the library.
We had robins who would flee, but eventually they started to dive at us, getting closer with each offense. Maybe your robin was a single mother? We had a traditional family, which might explain the improved parenting. :)
Oh, wow, we had a very similar experience about six years ago. One of my girls was sick, but we hadn’t yet figured out what the problem was, and that nest on our porch tormented me. The birds all tore out of the nest one afternoon while we were taking a picture of them, never to return. It literally makes me sick, still, thinking about those helpless little things flapping away. We never found any of them. Gah. I’ve always felt some weird link between those pathetically helpless little birds flying into danger (because of me!) and my poor pathetically and dangerously ill baby, although I know it’s absurd. Now we live in a house with nothing hospitable for birds beside it, and it’s such a relief! I agree: Please, Lord, no more robins.
I was so proud of filling out all the little boxes correctly and then submitted it without a comment. Brilliant.
Anyway, when I see “robins,” I think of my backyard which, a couple of times each spring, will be wall-to-wall (fence-to-fence) robins-hundreds-maybe an acre-full, but I think these are the ones that are passing through.
When my kids were little, sometimes they would come home from school and bring a baby bird that they had “rescued” on the way home. Once they took a blue jay out of the mouth of a dog. They were always in that fledgling state where they are very precious and they always died. I hated it.
That must protect/can’t protect aspect of parenting is probably the worst. I’ll say a prayer for you.
Nah it’s not wrong to pray for birds. “Not a sparrow falls without your Father knowing it.”
But I just read in the news that a man in Illinois was killed by a swan, so maybe they’re not as helpless as we think…
Very Good. I’m just laughing as I read it. When I was a kid we had a robin’s nest in the tree by our steps. Their territory call was revelry which was so funny when you heard it at night. When the eggs hatched they would dive bomb anyone that used the steps or walked by. Last year where I go for physical therapy there was a robin’s nest outside the window and I’d watch that drama when I was there. This year a mourning dove couple used it. Of course this year a crazy robin moved into my neighborhood. It was attacking its reflection in my driver’s side mirror and leaving a mess on the side of my car. I covered that mirror and it switched to the other side. Now I have to cover both mirrors every time I park my car when I get home.
Not wanting to give ornithological lessons but I’ve been taught the mother leaves the nest hoping (against hope perhaps) that the enemy really wants her to eat and not her babies. She will flee hoping the enemy will follow her - she’s larger, tastier. But maybe not - maybe it is just cowardice.
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However, the lesson remains - we all do our best and know God (as mentioned in a previous comment) takes note of it all.
Oh, the irony of this post appearing today!
I have a nice little shade-tolerant plant hanging from the roof on my front porch. About a month ago I noticed quite a bit of debris in my pot. A few days later it was a proper nest. Then before I knew it, we had five eggs. They were Carolina Wrens. So, I’ve been avoiding watering this plant- and it’s dying slowly- so as to not disturb the nest. A few days before Easter they hatched and I’ve been taking pictures of them on my tip-toes every day or two. The kids and I would watch the mama bird come and feed her babies through our front window.
So this morning I open my front door to take my dog out and what do I see? I yellow rat snake chilling in my pot. Don’t ask me how he got up there. I chased him out but not before he managed to wolf down four of the five fledglings. The last one was sleeping peacefully by himself, apparently not having noticed that his siblings were just devoured whole. The mama was back a few hours later and coaxed the lone baby out of the nest and they hopped off together, presumably to relocate.
I am so mad at that stupid serpent! It broke my heart.
Years ago, I had someone prune the overgrown apple tree in front of our house. He did an excellent job; and, when I looked out of my bedroom window, I noticed a nest which had up until then been hidden by a thick canopy of leaves. “Kids!” I yelled, running downstairs. “Look out my window! There’s a nest with 3 baby birds in the tree! Go look!” Brian ran up, but came down a few minutes later, looking confused. “Did you see it?!” I asked, excitedly. “I only saw 2 birds in there,” he said. So we went back up and looked, just as a huge bird of prey swooped in and plucked another baby out of the now unprotected nest.
I felt sick for days. But (bright side), we sure did learn about the food chain and the benefits of protective camouflage.
Last year a pair of mallards took up residence in our swimming pool. Everyone in the family was thrilled, and would rush to ooh and ahh when they would gracefully land for a visit. The kids cried and begged me for bread to feed them. They all rained bread crusts down on them until there wasn’t any bread, and cheese nips took their place. A couple of the preschoolers thought it would be fun to throw cat food through the fence into the pool as well. The ducks would quack appreciatively and wag their little tail feathers. It wasn’t long before the pool began to look and smell like the flamingo enclosure at the zoo. That was “it” for me. I began to grumble, bark “no more cat food!” and became the all-round Spring grinch. It wasn’t long before the honeymooning pair began to alternate their visits. When the kids were at school I would chase them off with a broom, yelling. It didn’t phase them. I started pegging them with tennis balls. They would quack, do a little water hop and swim briskly away from me, (mean,mean, spring grinch). One day the female duck marched hundreds of yards from the lake in front of our house, through six cats, two dogs, under two fences with *five adorable little fuzz-ball ducklings*. They zipped around the pool, sending my kids and their cousins into paroxysms of ecstasy. I melted a bit, and then hardened my heart, bribing my seventh grader to catch the ducklings, put them in a basket, and bring them back to the lake. The little kids were devastated (mean ‘ol, awful, grouchy, spring, grinch.) It wasn’t easy getting the parent ducks to give up their new digs either, even after their progeny had been evicted. I chased, and yelled and trapped and bribed. It was war. Eventually they gave up…We forgot about them…So take one guess, who gracefully landed in the pool last week, who fearlessly eats out of the cat’s bowl *with* the cat, and is thoroughly intransigent when I yell, chase, fuss, and wave pool nets? Guess who woke me up at 5 am this morning quacking loudly, and happily swimming with his mallard consort? I am a defeated spring grinch. I’m also choosing to ignore all the implications on how this reflects upon my tender, maternal heart. (Hrrumph )Okay. I admit it. I feel quite unlovely and unworthy of Spring at this moment.
I had the thrill of having both robins and doves use a nest on my windowsill several years in a row giving me an up close and personal view of the miracle unfolding day by day. It was fascinating to watch the daddy bird take part. And, yes, it was sad for the ones that didn’t make it—the eggs that didn’t hatch. And, I can’t say I liked the bird droppings ....
My real bird story happened when my dad inadvertantly brought home two baby birds in his boat that had been in storage. I named them Pip and Squeak. To see my mom (now Grandma)actually look for and dig up worms .... I would cut the worms up and feed my little adopted ones. I had an eye dropper to give them water. They were doing quite well and had taken to their new Mama—sitting on my lap or hopping on an arm or leg. Unfortunately, on a very hot day, they had no protection from the sun (“Mama” wasn’t home) and Pip and Squeak no longer pipped or squeaked. That was a sad day, too.
This post made me happy, scared and sad all at the same time.
I think maybe the mom flees hoping whatever has approached will follow her and not attack the nest? Wishful thinking maybe.
Second I have five children between the ages of 7 - 18 and I am struggling so much with the responsibilty to raise them with the express purpose of letting them go and letting them make a way for themselves. There isn’t a calendar that tells you when the switch occurs. It’s gradual. We’re supposed to lighten up a little bit at a time? This is what I struggle with. Our society is calling 23 and 24 year old adults kids when they finally get out of college (5 year plan minimum these days.
Doesn’t everyone tell you that you become an adult at 18? Sorry I don’t see it.
I don’t see Robins taking care of their fledglings for years. Heck from year to year I bet those little ones don’t even call or stop by…
Sometimes it’s easier to be a bird…
I have a nest outside my bedroom window with four baby birds in it right now. I have been creeping around my room so as not to disturb the mother, she flies away as soon as she sees my shadow. I know it sounds crazy, but I have also worried that I may cause her to leave her babies! So I keep sneaking around silently…
I receive Communion kneeling—and when I do, I close my eyes and stick out my tongue as far as I can: I like to pretend that I am a baby bird being fed by his mama.—I feel as helpless as those baby robins.—I am as helpless as those baby robins. Also, this is in accord with the pelican imagery in such hymns as Adoro te Devote. The mama pelican was thought to peck her side and feed her young with her own blood.
Anyone who looks at a Robin working a lawn and says"That’s an accident” needs his head examined.
Oh—it’s me, the wildlife abuser again—just remembered what you said about having worried if your baby was well nourished enough when you saw the scrawny, naked, baby birds—I’ve heard that the W.H.O. is calling for growth charts for just breastfed babies, as they recognize that growth data is different than the data on formula fed babies. Breast babies start out fatter, and end up leaner after a little while…though the pediatrician uses only one chart. Yes, it’s disconcerting to go from the 90th percentile to the 20th for weight, a year later! (and have the ped. tell you to feed your baby fatty foods like potato chips!)
Karen - “and Pip and Squeak no longer pipped or squeaked”
hahahaha I’m sorry, but that made me laugh out loud here at work!
My brother and I once bought two ducklings, Lawrence and Crysoganus, (and a 50lb bag of feed) at the local county fair much to our mother’s surprise. Then our family dog Stella snapped one of their necks while they were “exercising” in the backyard while the 10 little neighbor kids watched and they yelled with concern to my mom “Jan! Is the duck okay?!” My mom picked the (very dead) duck, propped its limp head between her fingers and turned it from side to side and said “Yeah, he is fine! Just looking around in shock!”
Look at all these life lessons birds have left all of us here!
Simcha…be grateful you only had/have robins with which to deal and fuss
over. Their problems are minimal compared to the tiny fawn born beneath
my bedroom window…and seeminly deserted by its Mommy for hours and hours! After a frantic all to the Game Warden I was assured she was
nearby and would be back…and no doubt had deposited another fawn nearby.
It seems given the laws of nature, deer have the sense to separate their newborn so as to minimalize the risks. And so the doe is fractically running back and forth to nurse and care for the separated brethren. Sure enough, we found out the sibling to our fawn was deposited in nearby neighbor’s huge hosta plants. As if this were not enough to cause me constant anxiety attacks the little darling and her Mommy ( by now I had named them Fern and Fiona, Mom and daughter) decided one morning as I was trying to get dressed for Sunday Mass as well as keep
one eye out the bedroom window, that it was time for Fiona
to try to test her legs and the sight of them scampering about the backyard, darting here and there, almost made me miss Mass! For the next
several weeks I had the best show in town in my back yard. Between the
darting all over and the pit stops to nurse it was quite a spectacle.
The Japanese students I was tutoring at the time all brought cameras
and needless to say, English lessons took a back burner.
Eventually the “show” left town but returned for apple treats for quite
awhile. Then they were gone!
The next spring when a single doe appeared in my yard, I am quite sure it was Fiona all grown up. But then since all doe look alike I will never know for sure. When hunting season began I became a basket case again when Fiona failed to reappear. I was certain she had become venison steaks
for some hunter’s family ....and I was secretly hoping they’d all choke to death when delighting in this delicasy of Nature’s bounty.
The deer population has fallen off now and it has been several seasons
since I have had any deer in my yard. But one of these days…I know when
I least expect it, there will be a soft eyed doe and her fawn scampering across the back yard into the trees…and it will be Lessons of Nature 101 all over again. Pleasure has a constant companion in pain. Robins, deer, whatever God blesses us with, teach us mighty lessons about the gift of life.
This post made me less grumpy. How the heck did that happen?
@William
Anyone who reads both this post and comments, yet thinks that the difference between women and men is still an “accident”, needs their head examined. Thanks be to God for that delight.
As I can see, many women (in U.S.A., Romania, wherever) are somewhat “what a cute bird/puppy/whatever” and do not think that the world is sometimes pitiless and cruel (that is, we are in this world and we cannot change it, so we must somehow manage it). Sorry for them. That’s why half of the population is men :-).
Other displeasures come from ignorance (“The birds all tore out of the nest one afternoon while we were taking a picture of them, never to return.”). Someone who cares about birds should be careful what he does, lest something bad befalls.
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