Ooh, Happy Tax Day! (or not depending on how the year shaped up for you). April is a big month for our fam – we kick it off with my dad’s birthday on April Fool’s Day, then my mom’s birthday is the 20th, and in just two weeks Zachary will turn FOUR on the 28th!
I asked the boys the other day what we should get Grandma for her birthday.
They were both deep in thought for a moment and then Zachary – ever so pensively – responded, “Well…..she HAS us!” Like what more could she possibly need?!
Then Matthew, taking it to the next level said, “Yes, and because she has US, she should probably get new toys for US.” Ahhh, I see where this is going.
Zachary also added, “She IS a lady,” (astute little fellow), “So, we should probably get her jewelry too.” Yes! We’re training these boys right! You’re welcome, future daughter-in-law!
Dad was a bit more practical with the ideas. Apparently my parental units have a small appliances-curse (this can also be carried over to bigger things like my dad’s computer). These little electronics work great when first purchased and then gradually just decline in productivity. Not to the point of warranting a new purchase though for my thrifty life-givers. No, they’ll wait it out until things smoke (the car, for example) or just plain stop working all together (the rice-cooker). They have a coffee pot that doesn’t make hot coffee (well, at least it MAKES coffee, then you just have to warm your mug in the microwave); they have a toaster that doesn’t toast (well, it toasts after the fourth push-down); they have a crockpot that burns in one spot (just scrape around the edges and the rest is fine). Seeing as I’m a major crockpot-head, I may go for that one. Then again, life without coffee is not a life worth living. And carbs? Toast?! A necessity.
My dad is definitely one for the practical. He’s not a big dreamer, not a lovey-dovey dude. However, apparently baby birds tug on his ‘ol heart strings like nothing else. I will explain – of course. Like, I’d just leave it with ‘my dad loves baby birds. The End.’ What kind of Blogger do you think I am?!
Last year, for my birthday, Dad helped Matthew build me a bird house. They painted it blue and Matthew wrote his name on it. I LOVE it! We immediately hung it up on the backyard fence where I can see it from the kitchen window (where, I’m fairly certain I spend 89.6% of my life – not the backyard fence – at the kitchen window, looking out at our backyard and our neighbors behind us who are anti-social, rude yet thoroughly intriguing…definite Blog material there). About a month ago, I noticed birds – actually birds! – flying in and out of the bird house. The first chance I had, I quietly and gingerly peeked into the bird house, making sure not to touch anything or get too close. It’s a little dark inside (and with only a small circular opening, it’s hard to see in.) I couldn’t see any eggs, definitely didn’t hear baby birds, but sure enough there’s a very nice cozy-looking nest going on. I was SO excited about it!
I was excited to tell Dad that his project with Matthew was not only decorative (but functional and practical for a bird family as well – now that’s the kind of real estate, my dad would support). I was a little astounded with Dad’s anti-my bird-watching response.
“That mother bird won’t come back now,” he told me.
“No,” I assured him, knowing that the mother won’t come back if humans interact with the eggs or babies, “I didn’t even go close enough to peer all the way in.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, “She won’t come back. Those baby birds are goners.”
“So, I’m a baby bird killer?” It sounds like a serial killer’s nickname. Jenny – the Baby Bird Killer.
“Yup. Most likely,” Dad responded nonchalantly.
As if to support his verdict on my guilt, I’ve watched the bird house closely (from my kitchen window!) and – of course Dad has asked nearly every time we’ve spoken – and sure enough, I’ve not noticed any birds flying in and out of there anymore.
“I AM a baby bird killer,” I said glumly to my dad the other day. “It’ll go on my tombstone: ‘Wife, Mother, Daughter, Best Friend, BABY BIRD KILLER.” I probably won’t even be allowed to be buried in the scenic, pretty part of the cemetery. They’ll just dump me in some back, mushroomy, weedy, shady corner.
“Well, maybe not a baby bird killer, but definitely a home wrecker,” Dad said.
Apparently, the number of baby birds being raised in broken homes IS an epidemic that is affecting bird society. Now I’ve got that to add to my guilt list.
I just glanced at the clock and saw it was time to wake up my people. Which means, I go into the boys room, say, “Good morning! It’s time to wake up!” I open their curtain, and start rubbing Matthew and talking gradually louder and louder. Our boys are SO different in how they wake up. Matthew is our teenage boy when it comes to sleeping – could sleep late and long everyday if we let him. Zach wakes up if you breathe loudly.
So, as I’m working on Matthew – rubbing his back, gently start to push and pull a little tiny bit more, I hear from behind me in a loud stage whisper: “Mom? MOM!”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Zachary. Good morning,” I go over and give him a cuddle.
“Mom? MOM!” (If I don’t respond within a nanosecond, then he goes for twice).
“Um, bunnies are rabbits.”
Thinking perhaps I doubt his proclamation, he adds, “It’s true! You can call them bunnies if you want!” Matthew grunts and rolls over.
And our day begins…