thank god my tubes are tied

I have managed to survive nine days (but who's counting? who's crossing the days off with big, gleeful, indelible X's in the calendar inside her head? not me) of my mother's ten-day visit with very minimal substance abuse (and if it's so minimal, can it really be called "abuse"?). Tomorrow, she gets on the itty-bitty airplane and flies back home, at which point the 48-hour fallout from her trip will commence, characterized by lots of overeating and crying and specific as well as global regret.

Speaking of mothering and flying, I found a baby bird hopping and squawking in our driveway today. It was very wee, with the tiniest stump of a tail, and lots of baby fuzz but no real feathers to speak of. And it had this adorable broad yellow beak that its head hadn't yet grown into.

Of course, because three little kids, two dogs, a cat, and a fish are not enough to take care of, I grabbed a tiny shoe box, lined it with a nice soft rag, and scooped him into it. Stupid Daddy called a local wildlife rehabilitator, who said it sounded like a titmouse. However, knowing nothing about birds, I am skeptical, since it looks so much like this and isn't it true that a brief search on the Internet can substitute for years of training? Whatever it is, she suggested we feed it a delectable mush of banana and softened cat food. Every thirty minutes. Not so much fun anymore!

And yet, to see this little thing all hunkered down in the shoe box opening its mouth as wide as it can for another tenth of an ounce of food and then falling asleep until the next tenth of an ounce gets loaded into its gullet--

every thirty minutes--

uh, we'll be bringing the little guy to the Nature Center first thing in the morning.