Tuesday, May 7th 2013
Survivors: The Very Small Kind

Two more TOTALLY unwanted ‘survivors’ in this house tonight.

The first one is a roach. I didn’t kill it. I let it run off, SO surprised was I that it had survived. I was cooking a mushroomy lean pocket thing. 2 minutes. On high. In the microwave. And when i opened the microwave…after TWO minutes….  it was in there running around like its feet were on fire.

NASTY. I watched in amazement as it ran off down my counter. Time to call the exterminator again. Clearly. Ew. I wasn’t hungry after that.

 

The second one is a BIRD.

As in, “never touch a baby BIRD, boys. Like, EVER.”

And i go outside and there is Caden-9yr with a baby bird perched on his FINGER like he’s Snow White or something.

And I’m MAD. MAAAAaaaaaAAAAd.

I told him it was too cute not to take a picture, so I did, but not to get confused because I was still mad. How many times have we discussed the never touch a baby bird thing? A LOT.

And clearly he TOUCHED the baby bird. And now we are responsible for the baby bird. The nest is high. It can almost fly but not quite.

I told the boys to just hang in there because we’d do our best THANKS NOW WE HAVE NO CHOICE, SNOW WHITE, but we’d probably all be crying our eyes out tomorrow when we had a cold dead baby bird to deal with and bury, AWESOME.

The boys seemed taken aback. So I figured they needed me to be more clear. The BIRD? It will DIE. Like, SOON. And we will all FALL APART with grief that is now in our path and THANKS but this was easily avoidable by like, NOT TOUCHING THE BABY BIRD IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Seth-7yr leaned over and smiled and I took another picture. Then resumed the lecture. (the pics are adorable. they won’t load. sorry.)

Ethan-13yr backed WAY up. His lip started to quiver.

“SEE?!?! IT’S ALREADY STARTED. WAY! TO! GO!”

Ethan-13yr said, “I am afraid to get too close to this bird. I’m going to be really upset if it doesn’t make it.”

“YES. Well said. That’s what I’m talking about. We are going to GRIEVE, boys and it is going to be AWFUL and I am not the kind to sugarcoat anything and there ya go. GREAT. Just hold on to your pants boys, because that’s where we’re going, and  FAST. Like, DEAD BIRD, HERE WE COME, DON’T NAME IT.”

And the boys are in bed right now. Asleep.

And I am awake with a damn bird in my BEDROOM, looking RIGHT at me. It is sticking its head out a hole in its shoebox (which is thoughtfully placed on a towel atop a heating pad on low) and there is a ventilated clear plastic cup covering the hole like a little cockpit so it can stare at me with its creepy little bird eyes and not have to hang out in the dark shoebox with the smushed cockroach (different one. we have plenty.)

I put the kids to bed and then made this little home for him with tape and a cup and a box and IT’S STARING RIGHT AT ME STILL. I’ m not a disney princess. I don’t like birds in my bedroom. Tomorrow he’s off to the nest, or die trying. I can’t stand this.

Caden-9yr wanted me to promise to take the bird to the vet if it doesn’t get stronger sooner.

I said NO and you better pray for that bird because NO. And then he got all misty eyed and I said maybe.

But I didn’t mean it.

We prayed. And the bird seems way healthy and has a REAL healthy attention span because it’s still staring at me.

 

I’m not sure why I’m so mad. But I am. MAD. I’ll discuss with therapist soon.

A few weeks back I went in and was like, “HELP ME, I JUST WANT TO LICK SOME MAN. I mean, literally, LICK some man’s cheek, HELP ME.”

Not anyone in particular. Just any old guy who understands power tools and dogs and trucks maybe. I had it in my head that it was suddenly completely unacceptable that the last person I kissed was Mike. No, not lately.  Like, pre-moved out. But it was like the equivalent of realizing you’ve gone back to work with guacamole breath after lunch and you can’t do anything about it..? Kinda like that. But that doesn’t make any sense. And I didn’t want a date. Or coffee. Or a boyfriend. GOOD GOD, NO. I didn’t even want to know this “real” man’s name. I just wanted to borrow his face for a few minutes to get rid of my guacamole breath. How awful is that?!

Anyway. She talked me through that and I won’t get into it but I GET it now and am no longer looking and thinking, “lickable?” and so I’m sure she can get me through a little bird rage. No problem.

 

It’s still staring at me.

 

 

 

 

~hm

3 Comments on “Survivors: The Very Small Kind”

1
Jeana
May 8th, 2013
8:39 am

Kelsey. I love you. And I feel a little bad that this post is making me laugh so hard, what with suffering with your licking condition and all.

2
Jan
May 9th, 2013
8:35 am

Put the bird back. It is a myth that the parent birds won’t come back if the baby has been touched. If it is ready to fly, it will. You were right–don’t touch the birds! they have a better chance of survival in the wild than with us. But having said all that–I have tears in my eyes from laughing at the thought of you licking some random man’s face!
Jan recently posted..Trim Healthy Mama: a book review

3
Kelsey
May 10th, 2013
11:01 am

Jeana,

Love you too.
I have not given in to the licking compulsion. I have consistently prayed through this. Also, it bothered me to think of what a mousy mug shot I’d make.

Jan,
you’re RIGHT, my dad said the same thing.
Stupid bird LIVED. It almost killed me with exhaustion, but it lived. Story later.

I decided I couldn’t possibly risk getting arrested. And perhaps the only way to avoid that would be to have a really awkward conversation first. “Hi. Please. No names. I’m just interested in knowing if you’d mind if I kissed you and licked your cheek near your ear for juuuuuuust a few minutes and then that’ll be it, thanks? If not, NO PRESSURE, I understand, I really don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. REALLY? YOU WILL? Thanks, here’s a legally valid form waiving your rights to press sexual assault charges against me. Do not sign your name in a legible handwriting please. I don’t want to be tempted to google you later and ask you to turn the other cheek. So i might lick it. thankssomuch, c’mere.”

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