The Best Nest

Our first birdhouse was an exciting, ground breaking event. In all previous years we had just made do watching the birds fly to our homemade, peanut butter, pine cone feeders. But this year we were studying a unit on birds, and our wonderful neighbor surprised us. We became the lucky recipients of a fine, new, bluebird box. That spring we had the chant from our favorite picture book constantly being sung throughout our house, and ringing in our ears. It goes like this;

"I love my house
I love my nest.
In all the world

This nest is best."

We believed it too! What with a sweet little pair of birds busily flying in and out, and little pieces of straw sticking through the bottom, proving our suspicions that a fine nest was being made. And then, one fine day, we did our daily check for eggs. I'll spare you the shocking forty or so photos we took (horror breeds fascination, and it seems we were no exception.) There, hanging from a horse tail hair, was our dear mother bird. Was it an accident? Do accidents happen in nature? Did it jump? Is there such a thing as the bird baby blues? Perhaps a homicide (we never did see the husband again..) We may never know...

Be that as it may, I'm not overly ashamed to admit that we were slightly on edge and jumpy the rest of the day. We're people of faith and all, but superstitions are sometimes hard to keep at bay when such freak things happen...
Eventually we did get over it, but we haven't had a birdhouse around since.
That is until Pal finished his first big scout project this week. And haunted memories or not, it must be hung... It's a mother's duty. So here's to you, birdhouse number 2. Better luck to you, and many happy returns.

"I think I can do it all by myself!"

"Ok, maybe not."

"That's better."

"Yes! Success." (Oh to be naive again)