Yesterday George runs in the back door, yelling, “Mommy! Mommy! Come here and see what I got!”
“What is it, George?”
“Just come here and see!”
I go to the back gate, and he’s holding a Carolina Wren. I can tell by the little brown eyebrows.
“Look what I caught, Mommy!”
“Oh, Georgie,” I say. We’ve told you not to pick up dead birds. Go put it on the compost pile.”
“No, Mommy! It’s not dead. It’s alive!” The bird gets a wing free and I see it start to flap.
“Um, Georgie, take it back outside please.”
The wing is flapping a little more fiercely.
“Georgie, PLEASE open the door and take it outside.”
Georgie opens the screen door and the flapping has unnerved him slightly. He drops the bird, it flutters against the glass before making its way to freedom.
I breathe a sigh of relief and turn to him.
“How did you catch that bird?”
His eyes are alight with excitement. “I sneaked up on it at the bird feeder and grabbed it!”
Seriously? My five-and-a-half-year-old ball of continuous energy has the ability to stalk a full-size Carolina wren? And catch it? Something the neighborhood cats could only dream of doing?
I’m laughing. I can’t help it.
“Georgie, why did you want to catch the bird?”
“I wanted it to sit on my finger, but it didn’t want to.”
“Those are wild birds. They don’t want to sit on your finger. They don’t know you won’t hurt them. Did you feel how fast it’s heart was beating when you were holding it?”
Wide eyes and big nod.
“It was scared. It didn’t understand that you just wanted to play. So next time, we’ll just leave the wild birds alone, OK?”
“THAT WAS SO COOL!” I am laughing again, can’t help it. “I can’t believe you CAUGHT a BIRD!”
Where’s the phone to call Daddy?