Hummingbird

It's been a complicated day. 

The kids wake up too early, just like every other morning. I conduct the same old morning song and we prepare for the day. As I help my oldest with his math homework, something catches my eye. A small movement outside of the sliding door. "Look, baby, a hummingbird!" We both stop and watch the small bird hover in one spot, inches from our window.

Then, back to our song of morning -- Hair, teeth, lunches, forms. Wait, is that yesterday's underwear? Just let me finish this last email, then I promise, I'll help you. Please, get your shoes on. Get in the car. I'll be right there. I promise.

In the car, the song continues -- To my oldest child: No. No. Maybe. I don't know. Remember, today's a bus stop day. I'll see you there sweetie. Don't forget to turn in your forms. Youngest child: Nope not today, preschool is over. Today's a home day. Oh love, it will be fun. I promise.

There's a pause and we all become aware of the radio. "Anthony Bourdain is dead at the age of 61. He's taken his own life while on location in France."

The car is stopped. We're here. But, I can't quite open the door. I don't know him of course. I haven't even seen that many episodes of Parts Unknown. But I'm sad. I'm really, really sad.

We sit for a moment or so. The kids ask questions. I don't know how to answer. I tell them and myself that we'll talk more about it later. Time to go. Hurry, hurry. As I step on the sidewalk, something catches my eye. A small movement on the ground. It's a hummingbird. It's alive. Breathing, moving, chirping. But it can't fly. It's body is not quite as it should be.

Oh my God. I can't. But I can't not. It's so small on this big open sidewalk and it's starting to rain. I find wonderful grown-ups to distract my children and a half-used box of Kleenex. I lean over this little struggling body. I'm terrified that I'll hurt it more. But I hold my breath, and as gently as I am able, scoop this tiny creature up. I'm astonished by the lightness. Logically I know that hummingbirds are small, but I expected even the littlest bit of heft. It's like lifting a cotton ball. I place her in the box, she rights herself and looks at me. I cry on the inside, but not on the outside -- there are things to be done.

I find a veterinarian who also happens to be licensed in wildlife rescue. I put this little bird in the front seat and my children in the back. We go to the vet.

They are not supposed to give me updates. The vet just successfully rehabilitated another hummingbird last month. I know she is in capable hands. I am so thankful that there are amazing people that give their time and resources like this. But she's been in my head all day.

Every night I sing "Blackbird" to my kids at bedtime. Tonight I couldn't get through it without crying. Every line felt so heavy with meaning. I thought of our hummingbird. I hope she'll be okay.

I cannot, will not, make any overt connection in this post to Anthony Bourdain and my hummingbird. But, I can tell you this. I will never again look at a hummingbird and not think of Anthony Bourdain.

I also can tell you that I believe we're all more connected than not -- skin, fur, or feathers, we all just want to find a safe place to land.

From Preschool Regrets to Boxed Wine: A Working Mother's Late Night Diatribe

My youngest child graduated preschool today. It was a simple, heartfelt affair with cardboard hats, scrapbooks and posed pictures in front of butcher paper. At the end, I started to think about the fact that I'm toward the end of my "mother of young children" phase and then my eyes got prickly. But I sucked those asshole tears back in, because even though our children spent a year together, I don't really know these other parents and I can't be the crier. I can only cry comfortably when I feel known.

And maybe I'm the asshole because I don't think I can even match up all of the children with their parents. There are a lot of blonde children around here. I don't know who goes with who. And honestly? I didn't take the time. I flew in to drop-off every morning, hastily kissing my daughter goodbye so I could catch my next meeting or teach my next class. I rolled into drop-off late enough to avoid small talk and cajoled my daughter back into the car so we could grab a quick bite before I got back on the computer to work.

I'm writing this, tears rolling down the sides of my nose, wishing for a do-over. And guess what? There is no fucking do-over. I poured (and drank) a large glass of wine earlier, so it feels apropros to quote Anna Nalick (Breathe, 2005) now: "Life's like an hourglass glued to the table." Anna may or may not have been a tired working mother post-preschool graduation when she penned that, but she clearly knows what is up.

I don't know what my objective is here. I have not written a single post for years. The only thing I wrote that ever gets a single hit is the one about Ryan Gosling's beard in The Notebook. I don't have social media. Not because I'm too cool, but because I'm too weak. Too weak to not scroll through feeds when I should be doing literally anything else. Too weak to not get completely destroyed when reading articles involving politics, puppies, Teflon, and/or honeybees. Too weak to not feel jealous when everyone else seemingly has their shit together in a more visually pleasing manner than myself.

And why am I even talking about social media? Oh yes, that's right. To prove the point that this is the most rant-y self diatribe ever that will not be read by anyone. I cannot and will not post the link to this article on social media. (Because remember, I don't have it.) So, since people only seem to read things via social media, this post is essentially invisible. I may as well be writing in my personal diary.

Since no one is reading this, I'd like to return to the wine. Remember, drinking wine and quoting Anna Nalick? Jesus God, that song really spoke to me in 2005. But the wine. After preschool graduation, all of us ladies (the 5 year-old, mother, and grandmother) popped into "Total Wine and More" for some gift cards. Because that is where you should buy end-of-year teacher gifts. I know this because I am a teacher. So we got the gift cards, then mom and I dragged the five-year-old to the back of the store where they store the boxes. We like boxed wine. Not Franzia or similar (because we have some taste), but mid-grade boxed wine in natural cardboard with agreeable fonts. We cooed over the reasonable prices and selection. We each grabbed two boxes and felt quite pleased with our purchases.

As we walked back to my car, joking about boxed wine, with my daughter wearing a scowl and a tutu, I felt pretty great. We should all be so lucky to have a mom to discuss boxed wine and parenting with. And a daughter who already know how to sigh, roll her eyes, and say, "this is so boring. When are we going to talk about unicorns?" Then, I get to go home, drink that boxed wine, and have an ugly cry in front of my computer. The tears dry, I write another paragraph, and now, instead of lamenting what could have been, I'm smiling as I remember my tiny mother lugging two boxes of wine across the parking lot. I don't know. I could have been better this year. I suppose we all can be better. But this it. And it's mostly great.

Thank you boxed wine.