Today, as I was taking a stinky diaper out to the trash, I noticed another baby bird hopping and stumbling around our driveway--number three from what is obviously the same brood. I wonder how many are left up there. I haven't been able to locate the nest, which appears to have a trap door.
Somehow, I went from weeping at the thought that his sibling might not make it and engaging in a full-blown rescue effort on Sunday to thinking, "Oh well, sorry for your bad luck!" today and doing nothing more than scooping this one up and depositing him on some grass under a nearby tree.
A bit later, I noticed him back in the driveway, dead and still, tipped over on his side. And I didn't shed a tear.
The rescued bird, the one I actually showed some mercy, I discovered when Stupid Daddy was around and the support and companionship were plentiful. Today, Stupid Daddy is away on his weekly work-related overnight. (At least he claims it's work-related.) Maybe this is what happens to me when I'm alone with my kids--every single ounce of energy goes into ensuring their survival without losing a grip on my own sanity--in other words, just getting us all through the goddamn day. Nothing--not one ounce of sympathy, not one morsel of concern--is left over for anything else, even an adorable, helpless baby bird with a haze of long downy hair who does a face plant every time he tries to take a step.
Either that, or I've been replaced by a cyborg. In which case, family, looking on the bright side, you can expect more regularly cooked meals and fewer mood swings.
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Birds. Balanced up in trees. On twigs. Laying eggs. Not a great scenario from its conception.
So to speak.
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