Grandchildren? Uh, no.
I’m talking about something that’s happening right now! There’s a bird’s nest on our porch! The mother and father — strike that — the mother — she did all the work — made a nest on a wreath that Lori placed on our door many months ago. Now we can look through the window and see it happen right before us.
It’s so exciting!
“Remember that bird that was always flying away from the house when we opened the side door? She built a nest. It’s empty for now but it’s right up against the window. I’m watching it and expect to see eggs soon.”
This was one very excited mother. The bird, I mean. But Lori was, too.
“Great,” I said. This wasn’t moving my needle. I had other concerns, like work, the world, the Royals, their pitching staff, Trump, Hillary, Bernie. No, not that one. I mean our Wheaten. She’s older than the guy chasing Hillary. Which is saying a lot.
Two days later I was out of town on business. I called home. “What’s going on?” Lori was out of breath. “OMG. There are eggs. One, two, three, four, five eggs!!!”
A couple days later there was more buzz. “I can’t talk right now,” she said. “They are hatching. They are so cute! But they are starving. Where is the mom? There she is. OK. Nevermind. I need to go. They are tiny little babies. They need food!”
I finally inspected them. Just as advertised. “But they need names.” After some discussion we decided on John, Paul, George, Ringo and Brian (the fifth birdie). The mom is “mom.” We don’t discuss the dad. No reason to spoil the mood.
The proximity has allowed photos, which are sent to all the family. And then I started getting messages from someone else: Verizon Wireless.
“You’ve used 3GB more than the 30G data in your plan. Overage data for this cycle is a million dollars. You are nuts unless you are photographing baby birds. If you are, please send us the photos.”
Meanwhile our cat, Sunshine, the most inappropriately named cat in the history of felines, suddenly was circulating around the side door. Always one to ruin a perfect day, she was ready for action. “What if a birdie tries to fly and crashes. I’m afraid we’d know his fate,” Lori noted, pretending to be Captain Obvious. Bernie meanwhile, largely deaf, partially blind, and with two knee surgeries, is excited, too. I just gave her a large piece of my brisket.
The mother would fly a short distance away and then watch the nest. When the coast was clear, she would return. The dad? In a bird-cave somewhere watching the Cardinals play the Blue Jays.
Lori’s mom got in the act. She knows birds. “It’s a finch,” she declared. “Looks like a house finch. Very common here.”
Calm was followed by another crisis. One of them had fallen out of the nest. Cue the work phone. “Oh no, we have a family problem!”
“Which one is it? It can’t be Paul or John. They are the most important birdies.”
“I can’t tell. I didn’t want to touch him or her so I used a towel and placed him back in the nest. It seems to have worked. The mom is feeding him too.”
The kids whine all day and the dad is blamed for everything. And then you have the birds! Meanwhile dishes were piling up in the sink. Mail went unopened. Bills unpaid. Text messages from other family members went rightfully ignored. No matter.
The birdies had entered the awkward phase. Imagine Phyllis Diller spending the day with Trump’s hair stylist. The birds resembled a pin cushion, with huge eyes and oversized beaks. The little tykes desperately needed a visit to the pediatrician.
Calm, then crisis. The nest was becoming very crowded. The fifth birdie, likely Ringo, could barely, um, sing. Or at least that was the impression of Lori, who now was a true expert in the care and feeding of the finches.
On Mother’s Day, crisis. “Honey, come in here. They are flapping their wings. I think they are going to fly. What if they flop to the ground and meet Sunshine? What can we do?”
Stare and worry, I guess. And hope this is cleared up by Father’s Day!
It dawned on me that all the bird metaphors we’ve heard about parenting suddenly became relevant. “Has your wife started nesting?” Someone once asked me. “Does nesting involve a daily visit to Steak and Shake ordering cheeseburgers, fries and chocolate milkshake? If so, then yes.”
“Someday your children will grow their wings and fly away.” “I hope they know a good pilot.” And more recently: “How is the empty nest?” “Not very empty. They left all their crap behind.”
Last Tuesday morning, we got up and naturally checked the nest. Only one birdie remained. He was sitting there, all alone. “Probably Ringo,” I said. He’s the runt. He was at the bottom.
By Thursday morning, birdie number five had flown away. Leaving the Keenans with two empty nests.
