I, my friends, was enjoying a quiet evening alone. This was an evening where I could use the good computer without an ounce of whining in my ears. I had the remote in my hands and an icy mug of root beer. Really. It was root beer. The windows were open and the front doors were both open and the breeze was blowing through just enough to make me think I almost needed a blanket. Not quite, but almost!
My eyes were just getting droopy when I heard The Dad's truck pull into the driveway. Instead of coming through the garage, he came in through the front doors since they were already open and he didn't want to risk waking up The Daughters should they, by some miracle, already be asleep.
As he walked past the front doors - laden with their cute fall wreaths, he disturbed a sleeping sparrow, who had settled into the wreath for his evening nap. The sleepy and disoriented sparrow chirped and flew away -- the wrong way. Instead of flying into the cool darkness of the fall night, it flapped its little wings right into our house! Then if flew right into one of our fireplace lights and apparently went blind because it then flew right into one of our ceiling fan blades and pinballed against our mantle before righting itself and circling my head, all the while chirping, "I'm going to get you, my pretty!"
To be honest with you, I'm not sure how I can recall all of this because the minute the little flying monster came on this side of the threshold, I began screaming like a Kardashian whose toenails were two weeks too late for a pedicure! I pulled my arms into my sweatshirt and my sweatshirt up over my head so that I was looking through just a small slit in the neck.
I'm not sure where my irrational fear of birds came from. I've never even seen the Hitchcock horror film, and to my knowledge, I've never been held captive, attacked or molested by a bird. But, the fact remains that they are skittish creatures with razors for beaks and needles for claws and there is NO reasoning with them once they get it in their little bird brains that they are going to flap their wings. It's utter chaos when a bird decides to, well, act like a bird!
Through my screams, I heard The Dad say, "What in the world...!" Surely the bird must be spitting lava or something, but apparently The Dad was only talking about me, as I now hunkered beside the recliner with my legs pulled up into my sweatshirt. Still screaming.
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| Looks just like me only with blonde hair! |
The Dad continued to whack at the bird as he moved slowly toward the open doors. The bird continued to flap and chirp and try to maneuver around The Dad, presumably, to get to me. The Dad and bird continued in hand-to-beak combat until they reached the door. The bird, in a final kamakazi-like gesture flew right into The Dad's hand. The Dad muttered a choice word that his own momma would not want me to print on this blog, and the bird went down.
The Dad shook his wounded hand out while standing over the finally silent and finally still bird laying in our doorway. "I think it's dead," he whispered.
Quick as the flapping of a sparrow's wing, The Daughters were out of their beds and standing in the hallway. "What's dead, Daddy?" Daughter 1 asked.
"Stupid bird, Baby Girl," I consoled. "Did Momma's screams wake you up?"
"No," she said a little too hastily, "Daddy, why'd you kill the bird?" she asked with way too much concern in her voice.
"That bird," I said with only a hint of fear in my voice, "tried to kill me. It tried to make you two orphans. Daddy had to kill it."
"But, Daddy," Daughter 2 whimpered, "It's so tiny!" Apparently, she was too distraught to address my near-death bird experience.
The Dad - ever one to sugar-coat - suggested, "Girls, I don't think I killed it. I think I just knocked it out." Then he picked it up by one of it's tiny, razor-sharp claws and tossed it outside. I screamed because I swear it opened its beedy, little bird-eyes and glared at me.
"Will the birdie be all right?" Daughter 2 asked.
"The bird will be fine," I consoled. "I'm sure I'll be fine, too after a couple of counseling sessions and a bottle of sangria."
"Whatever, Momma," Daughter 1 threw her hand at me. "I'm going back to bed."
"Me, too," Daughter 2 said, "I'm going to pray that the little bird is alright. We should pray for momma, too,"she continued. Finally! Someone understood my trauma! My misery! My near-death-by-beak experience!
Then she added, "I'm gonna pray that she's not such a baby."
