Birds

Last year, we left a Christmas wreath up until April. The pine needles were dried and faded, shedding in clusters at the threshold of our front door every time someone swung it open. It didn’t weather gracefully, but it wasn’t an eyesore either. So after months of repeating, “I need to take that down,” when I finally plopped a stepstool at the foot of the door, I was surprised to see a bird flit from the wreath.

Tucked between the door and the twisted pine needles sat a woven oval nest, quaint and cohesive. I stared at the shape, feeling the intimacy of the nest and realized a tiny speckled egg lay inside. I closed the door quickly, and from my window, spied through the blinds. Dutifully, the mother bird returned.

What followed was what us ADHDers like to call a hyperfocus. With the exception of keeping Sonny fed and dry diapered, nothing else mattered. I learned everything I could: identification, how nesting works, how to prepare for hatchlings, how to proceed when hatchlings arrive. All within an hour of the nest discovery.

Within days, I had set up a 24/7 live stream with a newly purchased bird cam suspended from a hook on my porch ceiling. Each morning, a new egg would arrive, accumulating to five.

We had survived a hailstorm, a relocation of the nest from our door to our bay windows.

I documented it on social media. I waited for people to ask me “What’s new?” So I could tell them about my egg-laying house finch. I received photos from friends about their discovered nests and bird stories. Spring had charmed us all.

When I was away from the house, I’d tap my house camera icon, checking on my mama finch contentedly warming her eggs. I got to know her companion and his red-breasted plumage. She was speckled, petite, with a grey bark hue, and attended to her nest dotingly. He, I noticed, sang a lot in the morning and brought many twigs and trinkets to reinforce the nest.

Then the storms came. One after the other.

The first storm was violent and foreboding. I watched on the livestream as the mother stayed on her nest as long as she could. The entire wreath swayed and rocked like a sail in a maelstrom, until finally she left, taking cover in a nearby tree. The thunder and lightning rolled through, but in the morning, she was back. I exhaled, counting the days that they would hatch and wondering how I could reinforce and protect the nest.

But the next day, during a windstorm, which felt more as an afterthought than a threat, wind whistled through our yard. I saw the wreath hanging on but a thread of duct tape that we had used to secure to a hook. I screamed for Brian to help. He acted quickly and heroically, as I gave him virtually no context or instructions, just yelled and pointed at the precarious nest. We had survived another attack.

I decided to reapply duct tape to get through the day, before making a trip to the store for more supplies.

I was outside when it happened. The most unassuming breeze, whopped and wallowed and, as if extending fingers, cruelly flipped the nest upside down. I shrieked as all five eggs splattered on my front porch.

Unable to even look at the yolks and miniature hatchling carcasses that littered the porch, I couldn’t help but sob. The only words coming to me were, “oh no oh no oh no oh no,” until finally, as I collected shattered egg shells, my dog Dolly promptly started licking the yolks. At which time I found more words, something like, “Dolly, get the fuck out of here, this is a massacre!”

I was so attached to these would-be hatchlings and their mama. I was in my first spring as a mother, and I connected with this creature’s devotion. I was charmed by her home, and fascinated by her poise. I was becoming every aging millennial cliché at once and suddenly identifying as an enthusiastic birder.

I’m aware it’s silly, and with hindsight, tragically funny, that I was crying at these broken bird eggs. But I had imagined a spring watching them grow. I had been forming plans to help protect them. And a gust of wind had destroyed that dream and potential. Disappoint mixed with grief.

I was also weaning breastfeeding, which can give women the emotional regulation skills of a feral honey badger, but that’s besides the point.

I researched that house finches will sometimes try to lay eggs again. I assembled the wreath, this time with vigor and ingenuity that I thought could withstand the storms, and waited. Days passed with the nest empty. Until one morning, Brian called me over with cautious excitement. The parents were both rebuilding the nest. With a glimmer of hope, I saw them collect dried stocks and leaves from my garden, tufts of hair from deuce and dolly, and, less #aesthetic, some trash from the alley to rebuild the nest.

I was hopeful, until a robin started visiting the nest. Its presence was imposing and ridiculous, as it tried to nestle its large body on top of a nest fit for a bird one third of its size. I shooed the invader away, suddenly viewing robins as the enemy. The house finches never returned.

I saw many birds that spring, maybe some of them were my house finches. But they did not decide on nesting on my porch. How could they?

I understand this is part of nature. I understand that it’s possible I was saved from an even more violent lesson in the laws of nature. But I like that I get wrapped up in things. I like that I hyperfocus and obsess over some tiny delight of spring, viewing something some might call a hindrance as a bit of magic that blessed my front door.

I don’t care that I cried over baby bird eggs and then probably had an egg sandwich the next day for breakfast. I like that I’m extremely sensitive, I like that I feel things deeply. I like that my whims sometimes consume me and my innocent bystanders: Brian and Sonny.

Those are all qualities that a lot of people with ADHD often exhibit. When I started this week’s newsletter, I was either going to skip this week, or talk about executive functioning failures. My house, my life, my history seems like a graveyard of projects attempted and failed because executive functioning skills can be so difficult for me. It’s been a frustrating and disappointing week for reasons I will share eventually, but internally, I have been rallying against myself with harsh and rigid criticism, trying to bully myself into “becoming better,” whatever that means.

I don’t always know what’s going to come out when I sit down to write these weekly newsletters. “Birds” was my single idea slotted for this week. But delightfully, as I wrap this up, when I thought maybe some humorous self-depreciation about my shortcomings would be the direction, I’ve ended with a softened and deeper appreciation for my whimsy, obsessive, and sensitive mind.

Wishing you softness and sweet moments of spring this week.

Thanks for reading,
Ashley