Or Assholes come in every flavor, even bird!

Okay, so the craziness has mostly subsided (I KNOW! I keep saying that, and then it’s a month or more before I blog again!). We are all moved into our new place, which is AWESOME, and I’m very much enjoying not being in the old place anymore. I actually had some pretty serious anxiety involved with going back there with Rob yesterday to pick up some of the last of our stuff. I hadn’t realized how much I hated living in that apartment, that neighborhood, until I was free of it!

So we’ve been moving stuff at a pretty steady pace, and then the movers came by on Saturday to do the lion’s share of the work (thank you so much to my ex-husband for paying for movers, it removed a HUGE amount of stress from moving). Anyway, the kids had gone to the park to explore (my kids are 13 and 16, but move to a new neighborhood? WHERE’S THE PARK, MUM?). They come back, and there’s yelling, and I can’t figure out what’s going on. DEAD BABY BIRD, MUM! OH MY GAWD!!!!

Turns out there were a couple of baby birds dead in the grass just outside my daughter’s bedroom window. I go outside to look, and say, well, not much we can do now. (backstory – a robin had built a nest inside the dryer vent of one of my upstairs neighbors and we could hear the babies peeping a lot of the time). As we’re heading to the car, we see a grackle messing around at the opening of the vent, hear the babies peeping as loudly as they possibly can. Suddenly, we hear “PLOCKSHHHHH” behind us and realize that this grackle, this asshole bird, has grabbed another baby and tossed it out of the nest.

You know that scene in The Bourne Identity (I think that’s the first film?) when the girl has just witnessed people killed and she throws up in the lobby of the building, and Matt Damon just grabs her around the shoulders and makes her keep walking? That’s kind of what I did with my kids (minus the vomit). I just grabbed them both and resolutely kept walking toward the car. Grackles, man. Assholes.

We got home from wherever we were going, and the kids decided that we needed to hold a little birdy funeral. So we lined a little cardboard box with paper towels, and used a Ziploc bag as a glove to pick up the three little corpses (I got that dubious honor), placed them gently in the box and covered them with another layer of paper towels. Taped the box shut with duck tape, and Zachary carried it off with him. I think he buried it somewhere at or near the park. *sigh*

So devastated, these near-adults of mine, at the harsh realities of nature. I told them that in the woods, animals would have carried the babies off to snack on, or would have just eaten them there. But we needed to remove them, or we’d have dead-bird smell coming in our windows in a few days’ time. I know Zach doesn’t like people knowing how sensitive he is, but the idea of putting the birds in a bag and into the dumpster just killed him, so they were interred with pomp and circumstance.

There are still babies left in the nest. I don’t know if Mama robin came home and dispatched the grackle or what, but we haven’t found any dead babies in our yard since that first batch, and we can still hear the babies crying in the nest at feeding time. I did joke about letting our cats out for a snack, but that was met with stony silence, and then, “That’s not funny, Mom.”

So much for trying to lighten the mood.

Asshole birds.