The Things the Little Bird Told Me

One day a hummingbird moved into our backyard.  She just up and plopped herself right there on the third light from the left of our hanging porch lights that I bought on clearance because they reminded me of the Car's Ride at Disneyland.

The hummingbird was sweet and content and we had a mutual affection, even though Cameron almost accidentally destroyed her with the broom that one time.  I'd find myself looking out my kitchen window constantly wondering what life as a humming bird might be like.

No bath time, no dinner to make, no homework problems to look up on the internet (because you cannot for the life of you remember how many pints are in a stupid gallon), no toilets to clean, no kids running in and out and never, EVER, shutting the dang front door.

And then one day, we discovered that bird's sneaky little secret.

2 tic-tac sized miniature white eggs.

(gasp!!!)

I again found myself gazing at her thorough my kitchen window.

Lucky little bird.  She had it so easy.  No morning sickness, no gaining 20 lbs. in a month, no having to worry about peeing your pants in the cereal aisle, no stretch marks, no varicose veins, no trying unsuccessfully to squeeze herself into her old fat-jeans.  She just got to sit there and look happy.

That little jerk.

And then one day those eggs became birds.  Just like that.

No pushing, no epidural, no stitches, no messhy adult disposable underwear, no 4 inches of excess belly flab.

She had it so easy, that ungrateful little lark.

We watched intently while her two hairless little jelly beans developed into mini spiky-haired birds.

Eventually they got too big to share such a tiny little nest and mom got the boot.  She moved to the much less glamorous wire and perched herself at their side.  It was then that I decided I could kind of relate to her.  She had to sacrifice a few comforts too.  She had to provide food and protect from danger.  ("Danger" is what I named the neighbors hideous white cat who desperately wanted to make them her mid-day snack.)  She probably worried irrational worries and wondered if she was doing a good job.

She probably lost sleep over what the future holds and wished she could make it certain.  She probably wondered if she had taught her little ones everything they'll need to know and sometimes even panics that they might not listen to her warnings at some future point.

She probably wonders if the worms are nutritious enough, or maybe they're too nutritious, or maybe they should be eating one more serving of worms per day.  Or maybe one less... 

I continued watching them out of my kitchen window and still found myself vaguely jealous of life as a mommy hummingbird. 

It was all just so unfair.

She just sat and relaxed while I scrubbed dirty dishes of a dinner no one liked in a 7-year old pajama shirt (that belonged to my husband until last week when this belly demanded it) while the kid performed miniature acts of terrorism and demolished a clean house that eventually I knew I'd have to clean up by bending over and then bracing myself on my knees to even have a chance of getting back up.

Glamorous. I know.

 And then one day, it happened.  

The birds were gone.  

Just gone.

One of the babies flapped it's wings, lifted itself out of the nest, looked down, and off it went.

And then the other did too.

It had been two weeks at most.

And they were gone.

G o n e.

And then, all the sudden, I did not envy that mother.  Not at all.

In fact, I ached for that poor little mom.  She certainly hadn't realized it would be so short.  She couldn't have gotten the time with them that she desired.

They were gone and her job was done.

Unfair indeed.

I still find myself instinctively glancing out my kitchen window at that tiny empty nest and feeling a flood of gratitude for the gift of time with my children. 

The days are long, but wow, the years are short.  

So for now, I'm going to soak up the seconds and the minutes and the hours and the days and be grateful for every crazy, wild, and beautiful moment.

Happy Mother's Day.

"If you are still in the process of raising children, be aware that the piles and piles of laundry will disappear all too soon and that you will, to your surprise, miss them profoundly."  

-Thomas S. Monson