Welcome to another edition of It’s Like This — can you believe I’ve made it to issue #8? I really could not do this without you, so thanks, as always, for reading!
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We’re expecting!
Well, okay, I don’t know if the Gambel’s quail who is nesting in my geranium pot feels that I’m a part of her “we.” But she did choose my patio as a safe spot to have her babies. I think we’ve bonded.
When she was first preparing her nest, I startled her a few times before I knew what she was doing. Then, over the course of a couple weeks, we could see the expectant parents pacing nervously on our back fence, waiting for us (or the dog) to vacate the backyard, so she could safely return to the pot. Every day or so, she’d leave another egg, and now she’s got a clutch of eight.
I am careful when I step out onto the patio and I wait to (lightly) water the plants when she’s not there. When I see that she’s snuggled down in the cool dirt under the geraniums, I envy her nice, quiet haven. I hope she’s enjoying a bit of calm before the storm of motherhood.
I feel an affection for this dumb bird who chose this tall, not very secluded planter to hatch her eggs.
I even added some dirt to the front of the pot when I read that the chicks won’t be able to get out if the dirt is more than an inch below the rim. The little ones are supposed to be able to survive the two-foot drop, and I hope that’s true.
We also had a pair of great horned owls nesting in our neighborhood for a few months this spring, which was very cool to see (and hear). Their sole owlet fell out of the nest at one point and hung out on the ground below our neighbor’s tree for several weeks before he could fly, his parents always overhead watching. He caused some excitement one night when he made his way into the street and several of our neighbors stood guard, ushering cars around him until he got himself back to safety, all the while his parents hooting frantically from above.
Maybe all these nesting birds sparked some maternal instinct in me, but I’ve been in a rare “spring cleaning” mode. A couple weekends ago, while I was cleaning, my husband kept asking if he needed to call the doctor. Something was clearly wrong with me.
In my fevered state of de-cluttering, I decided it was time to remove the photos that have been hanging in my hall bathroom and laundry room. My son has gone months without needing to move the faucet or the toilet paper holder. It was time to see if we could lose the pictures and still agree about how these rooms should look.
He didn’t seem to notice right away, so I was hopeful at first. But within just a couple of days, our old battles resumed. Faucet pushed over to the left. Toilet paper out of reach.
So, now we know that these photos are not changing his internal definition of what is “correct.” He still wants these items in his favored positions; the photos are simply acting as impulse control.
Very effective impulse control, it turns out. So…the photos are back on the walls for now. My next strategy is to borrow from some old ABA “fading” techniques to either make those pictures smaller and smaller or to gradually replace them with more “appropriate” wall art that still gives him that same reminder to pause before giving in to his impulse.
We’re living under his opinions in most rooms of the house, and now his rules have expanded to the outdoors.
My boy has been enjoying the addition of our new pool, completed just in time for summer. I am hopeful that this new at-home activity can counteract the effects of the baking and couch-potato-ing that has been his (our?) preference over this past year. The first few times in the pool, he seemed to have just swapped the indoor couch for the in-pool corner bench, but he’s been getting re-acquainted with swimming now, practicing handstands and splashing the length of the pool and back.
Unfortunately, though, the pool is a little crowded since he’s decided that if we are swimming, all our pool toys must swim, too.
Oh, but he’d rather us not actually use the inner tube or kickboard or pool noodles. He keeps stealing them out from under us – not to play with, but to set them free to float unencumbered. Sometimes he grabs them playfully, but more often he’s like a grumpy lifeguard scolding us for not following his pool rules.
This past weekend, I reduced this traffic jam of rafts by one (accidentally) while acting in my self-prescribed role as quail mid-wife.
That momma quail in the flowerpot next to the pool has become more accustomed to the splashing and noise, and now that her clutch is complete, she’s nesting for longer chunks of the day. It should be two to three weeks before this octomom’s chicks arrive.
But I became increasingly worried that these little birdies would leave the nest by way of my kind dirt ramp… and, in their first-day excitement, promptly run over and drown in the pool. According to Google, the mortality rate for a brood of baby quail is 85%, and water hazards are right up there with predatory snakes, birds, and cats in making their first two weeks treacherous.
So, because I don’t have enough to worry about with my own brood, I labored this past Saturday to create a low baby-quail-proof barrier around the pool. I hope this works to steer those chicks away from the dangers in our yard, and onto whatever fate awaits them that does not involve me scooping up drowned baby birds.
My son was not too thrilled with the changes I was making to our outside environment. Then, I made it worse by not paying attention when cutting a roll of chicken wire on the patio a little too close to his pile of pool toys. Sharp wires and cheap inflatable rafts do not mix.
The victim didn’t die right away, it was a slow death that was obvious by the next morning. My son came running to me with alarm, saying “blow up” and “swim,” and led me out to see his deflated friend. He wanted to immediately replace this raft he rarely uses, but I’m going to try to delay that and enjoy one less obstacle in our pool’s course for a bit.
Hey, maybe I’ll take this opportunity to tack up a poolside photo – one that shows pristine water uncluttered by a flotilla of swim toys (or at least showing me happily lounging on one).
You never know, it could work.
And, speaking of brooding over progeny, one final note:
Look at these! I thought I’d killed these little plants, but they are troopers!
We should be harvesting jalapeños (and hatching quail) very soon!
PS: Merriam-Webster, in describing the definitions for the word “brood” says this:
One of the noun senses of brood that is often encountered today is "the children of a family" (as in "they showed up at the picnic with their whole brood"). This may seem as though it is unrelated to the most commonly used verb sense, which is "to think anxiously or gloomily about; ponder," but the two words come from the same source, the Old English brōd. The noun form of brood came first, and the verb, when it appeared in our language, was used to refer to the action of chickens sitting on their eggs. Eventually the verb began to be used in a figurative manner, and took on the "worriedly pondering" sense it has today.
I just found that interesting – since I was making connections between our nesting birds and our worried minds. :)