It’s Sunday morning —
Get your own breakfast, baby birds!

Motherhood brings with it so many joys. There is nothing in the world that compares to the feeling of holding your baby, the one that just came out of your body, for the first time. There is awe, disbelief and intense love as you look into the face of this tiny creature who will depend on you for everything. Absolutely everything.

At a certain point, I think I expected the children to move on from this dependence and discover their own way, little sparks of independence that let me know that they’ve been watching and learning all along and now, they’re ready to start swimming away, one little doggy-paddle at a time. Instead, it seems they are clutching to me like a much-sought-after lifeboat from the Titanic.

I often imagine my kids like baby birds, shrieking loudly and then opening their beaks to the sky, waiting for momma bird to drop something, anything, into their waiting mouths before they starve to death in their snug little nest.

Sunday morning is sacred in this house. Not for religion reasons, but because it is the only day we do not set an alarm clock. Now that my kids are completely capable (in theory) or finding some sustenance to maintain their life force, there is no waking up mom. Unless there is vomiting or bleeding, they had best be quiet.

Yet, by our very nature, we are an entire house of morning people. I vividly remember being a small child and waking up naturally at 5 a.m. Before heading to bed on a Friday or Saturday night, my brilliant mother would put a bowl, spoon and box of cereal on the table. So there would be no chance of me creating a disastrous mess of spilled milk, I had my own little tupperware pitcher of milk in the fridge.

It had been clearly explained to me that I could eat this cereal while sitting on the floor in front of the television, only after having quietly closed the pocket door to the den, where said TV was housed. I passed many a Sunday sunrise, hanging out with the magnificent claymation that was Davy and Goliath. And if I was lucky, I’d also catch an episode of the Hot Fudge Show, a lesser know kids classic. If this sounds familiar but is only a fuzzy memory, you can check out a clip from FuzzyMemories.com here. It was quite an experience.

However, as I got older, and by older I mean probably seven, my mother expected me to fend for myself. For my 10th Christmas, I got my own frying pan and spatula. I was the queen of the scrambled egg. And this early independence paid off for my mother. Those extra hours of alone time on weekend mornings led me to start creating complete breakfasts in bed for her. Of course as a mother myself now, I realize that the best gift would have been to leave her the hell alone, but as a 10-year-old, I was pretty freaking proud of myself.

What I’m trying to say is that I feel my kids’ pain. It’s not easy to get up at the crack of dawn. I never put out cereal and a bowl for my kids, but I did get out of bed and start cooking, when they were incapable of putting together anything resembling food. But my kids are 10 and 13. I’ve now found myself uttering the horrifying I’ll-never-say-that-to-my-kids statement, “When I was your age….” Because when I was their age, I had my own damn frying pan.

Though I’ve had several conversations with my kids about feeding themselves, a common Sunday morning refrain that I am met with when I get out of bed is, “When is breakfast? I’m starving.”

Often, this child has been up for hours. Listen, I can understand a little trepidation over using a gas stove, but where’s the fear in peeling a banana? Or biting an apple? In all of my years, I have yet to hear of any tragic accidents involving fruit consumption. Well, except choking, but I like to think that’s one of the emergencies for which they’d wake me.

My favorite part is when I get irritated and suggest that perhaps a decade on this earth is enough time to learn the skill of grape eating and am met with a shocked stare. As if this is a brand new idea that I am thrusting upon her unawares. I haven’t decided if the shock is over my agitated state or the feeling of indignation over the fact that I really expect her to get up and feed herself.

Then there’s the other one. He would make Gandhi proud with his ability to survive long periods of time without eating. We’ve decided that he must survive on Xbox calories, the imaginary nutrients that keep a child firmly planted in front of the almighty video game console, spurning food or drink in favor of in-game content and Easter eggs. And no, not real Easter eggs. I’m not really sure what they are, but the term gets tossed around pretty freely and all I do know is they are not artificially dyed, hardboiled food items. Too bad. Maybe if they were, he’d get some actual calories in his system.

God help us all if I die before they learn to boil water.

The real kick in the arse is that both of them know how to prepare lots of food. They just won’t. They’d rather hang out in their nests, squawking and screeching. This time of year, I feel way worse for the real baby birds then my lazy kids. Here’s an easy recipe from theoutdoorparent.com for pine cone bird feeders to help our feathered friends in the heart of the winter.

What you need:

Pine cones, preferably open
String
Peanut butter/suet/vegetable shortening
Oatmeal or cornmeal
Birdseed mix from the store (you can make it high energy by adding some extra sunflower seeds or chopped nuts)
Plate or pie tin

Tie a string around the pinecone.
Mix ½ cup peanut butter/suet/shortening with ½ cup oats/cornmeal.
Use a spoon (or fingers!) to spread the mixture onto the pinecone. Make sure to get the mixture into the open areas of the pinecone. It’s easier if the mixture is warm.
Place birdseed in pie tin. Roll and press seed onto pinecone until well covered.
Hang your pinecone feeder in a tree just outside you window. Try to place it away from the tree trunk so it’s more difficult for squirrels to get to it.

I’m hoping to still be sleeping when you read this, so if you hear some pathetic whining coming from the area, you’ll know what it is. Maybe near starvation will force them to open the fridge.

Top photo caption: Newly hatched Barn Swallow nestlings begging for food. (Photo: Kati Fleming, Wikimedia Commons)

Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.

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