maternal response

In early spring the girls and I can often be seen dashing out the front door and flapping our arms frantically in attempt to dissuade birds from building nests in the ferns which hang on our front porch. Last year we successfully convinced three different birds to find better places to lay their precious eggs. Because nests built in our hanging ferns are always abandoned. Even if I neglect the fern, letting it wilt in order to keep my scent away, eggs are always left behind.

I nearly cried when I found a nest last week. There was no sign of the mother. Initially I was angry and frustrated with her. How could she abandon her egg? Why wasn't she skirting about, squawking, trying everything in her power to save it? And then I started to think maybe this was her first egg. Maybe she was a new mother. Maybe she didn't understand what was going on when she felt this intense need to build a nest. And maybe she hurriedly wove a bed of pine straw, twigs and leaves unaware of the potential danger nearby. And then she laid her egg. And maybe she was frightened and confused. And maybe she just flew away.

Then there is the bird that has nested in the archway of our fence. She is fierce. Constant. When I approach her, she stiffens her neck. Unblinking she warns me. And I can see from the black of her eyes that she will defend her territory, her precious eggs. And I whisper, "it's okay, mama."

The fight or flight response to motherhood. I feel connected to both birds, like I understand the choice they each made. Though I responded a certain way to motherhood, sometimes a part of me feels not so far from the other choice.