The Birds Find Me Intrusive

So I've got this crazy mama bird nesting in a Target sack. And she & her boy-bird are really starting to hate me. You'd think we'd have developed a better understanding, after that whole scare with the grill rocks and the concrete. But still, I get no respect.

(NONE of this is actually making sense, is it? Busy week. Distracted mind. I better start at the beginning...)

One fine Saturday just before spring, Man-About-the-House J decides to tidy up the carport. He's also working on the grill. In the carport, on a set of shelves against the wall, he has stashed a plastic sack with grill rocks (you know, like charcoal briquettes, only they don't burn up?). In the process of his work, he picks up his sack and notices a messy bunch of dried leaves on top of his rocks. This conversation unfolds...

J: "By the way, did you put leaves in my sack?"

G: "WHAT?"

J: "Are you storing leaves in here?"

G: "Whatever for?"

J: "I don't know. I just need to know, are they yours before I throw them away."

G: "Well, I don't think they're mine. I don't remember saving any leaves for anything in particular. What color are they? No, I definitely wouldn't have done that. Ask your son."

(BRIEF PAUSE during which we both realize, 1) what other color would dried leaves be except brown? 2.) what difference does that make, anyway? 3.) my throught process is definitely not as sharp as it used to be, and 4.) even if the boy did purposefully save the leaves, he can, uh, pick up more.)

So the leaves are dumped into the driveway, at which time we notice the top layer of loose leaves is covering a denser layer of compacted leaves with some red hair mixed in. (J. has a habit of trimming his hair outdoors.)

Because we are very, very S L O W people, we are still not seeing what has happened here.

I say, "That's weird. The leaves have hair in them."

J says, "Yeah, and they're shaped like a bird nest."

Me, as a lightbulb goes off: "AHHHHHHH!!! We're bird killers! BIRD KILLERS! Noooooooooo."

J: "I'm sorry; we didn't know -- but, hey, there ARE these 2 little brown eggs in the leaves. Take a look!"

At which time I completely wig out because, yes, indeed, right there on our cold, cold concrete driveway are two of the smallest, most translucent, mottled beige and brown eggs I have ever seen. And one is still quite warm. Actual wringing of hands ensues.

I immediately wanted to make restitution, but we had ripped the old plastic sack in half as it had a loose knot in the top. (Imagine the avian dexterity reuired for the building of a large, cone-shaped nest inside a half-closed plastic bag. Amazing!)

So I run inside and try to call various relatives who might know something about birds. No luck; no one home. I run to the laundry room (still wringing hands, now making a Wallace face a la Nick Park) to try and find a plastic sack of the same size and thickness. (Yes, I actually thought the mils might matter!) No luck, again. Only thicker and larger bags were to be found.

I decide to do the best I can, and take a Target sack outside to collect the leaves. First I place the nest, then scoop up the eggs on a leaf and put them back inside. Then I put the Target sack back on the shelf (very unsightly, really, but sacrifices must be made) and carefully replace the loose leaves in what I think is a pleasing bird pattern.

Then I wait. And call back those family members I couldn't reach before, to ask for absolution for possibly killing two baby birds not yet born. Everyone agrees we are not at fault, but the bird won't likely be back.

Several days pass, and nothing seems to change. Just the smallest glimpse of two lone eggs, looking very cold, every time I pass.

Then J says, "You should check out your nest. I just counted six eggs."

SIX EGGS!! Can I get a "hallelujia," brothers? The Lord taketh and the Lord giveth right back.... Six eggs!

I went to peek, and I found a little brown bird head filling the nest. I thought she looked pleased to see me. I was wrong.

I began to check in on Mama Bird about twice a day, each time I used my car. For several days, she stayed perfectly still and didn't fly away. Then, one morning, I noticed the handle of the Target sack had flopped over the opening of the nest (and after I so artfully scrunched the plastic, too!). I decided to be helpful and move the plastic back a bit. Oh, and the mom was out, so I got a peak at the stash... NICE looking eggs! My heart swelled with maternal pride.

The next day, the handle was right back where it had been before. "Huh!" I thought. "What a windy week we're having around here." I leaned in to fix it and found Mama B. resting her head on the plastic. And so NOT happy to see me. This time she did fly away, but only under the edge of the nearest car. Somehow, as she flew this 1/2-second distance, she signaled her burly bird boyfriend, because another brown flying creature -- this one fluffier and, I swear, with menacing eyes -- instantly appeared and began to fuss at me. I think he set off the neighbor's Cadillac alarm with his twittering and posturing.

So I got the message. Mama B. was sick of my check-ups. She wasn't bearing them patiently; she'd just been afraid to leave me alone with her sack after the first disaster. This time around, she was standing her ground. And she could do that, because evidently she's married to the Hulk Hogan of the wren world.

OK, fine. I can take a hint. I just needed to check on "my" nest more discreetly. I could walk past it on the way into the shed just behind the wall shelves, and not a peep or a fluster from Nesting Nelly. But I guess I overrate my own subtlty. Because today, when I got out of the car and didn't immediately head inside.... when I just barely lifted my chin to better peer into the Target sack... The avian Rocky Marciano told me in no uncertain terms to a bring it into the ring.

So (deep sigh) the birds really do find me intrusive. I'm disappointed; I'm not going to lie to you. I did rather fancy myself a sort of modified Dr. Doolittle. Nurse Do-litter, maybe, who can midwife a good batch of eggs and tame fluffy brown things into living home decor. Yes, I had spoken to J about "adopting" a few of the feathered babies to live inside and keep me company during the day. He called it kidnapping and made clear that we need nothing more wild in our house than the child we already shelter there, but hey, it's still an idea...

I'll let you know how things progress. I bet Mama and Papa B. will be so proud of the birdlets that all will be forgiven once they arrive. I may even get a picture of the little beaks poking out from the plastic protection of Targetville. After all, as the store's motto says, "Expect more."