I need a crowbar to open my frozen bird feeder

So it comes to this.

It's down to me...and the bird.

I despise birds.

I will admit to some softening after we witnessed our cockatiel, Percy's loud grieving following the passing of his longtime roommate, Al.

Percy then began the determined, but ultimately unsuccessful, development of a relationship with our resistant dachshund. And now, with our household population reduced to an uneasy trinity: The bird, Brad, and me, my attention must reluctantly turn to Percy. The bird, of course, is equally thrilled. 

Our house seems cold and quietly cavernous these days. In preparation of our workday absences, Brad adjusts the temperature for the ideal cockatiel climate while I am in charge of enrichment. Our daughters are flabbergasted. "The bird has his own TV channel?" Sydney repeated, incredulous. "199 shows a calm cabin scene," I explained. "It includes a babbling brook, bird song, and occasional animal appearances."  Sydney immediately called her sister, concerned. "Yeah. I know," Savannah sighed before sharing further, "Mom has also been socializing him by forcing him to ride around on her shoulder for ten minutes a day." "Poor Percy!" Sydney exclaimed. "They're worried he's lonely," Savannah said. "I'm worried that they've gone coo-coo," her sister replied. Savannah's silence implied consent.

Meanwhile, in an attempt to help me adjust and, idealistically (and unrealistically) encourage me to LIKE my new classroom, Brad bought me a bird feeder for outside my window. "But I don't like birds," I told him graciously, throwing my present to the side in disgust and searching for the chocolate that he MUST have bought me. No way would he have just bought me a stupid bird feeder. 

I pretended to forget about my gift until Savannah and Lisa arrived at my classroom to "help me" install it. Great. Now I was committed.

The little scavengers descended like locusts. They were distracting...annoying...and, for the kids,...utterly delightful. 

"Mrs. Mosiman, the bird feeder is empty," my worried whippersnappers reported. 

So? I was not in the business of providing government hand-outs for my fully-functioning feathered fiends. I was doing them no favors by making them bird-feeder-dependent. I would not be the LBJ of the winged world.

"Mrs. Mosiman...it's cold out there," my 4th graders pleaded. Small birds lined my windowsill, cupping their eyes with weathered wings to peer in. I swear one gave a tentative knock. Charles Dickins would have been proud. 

So it comes to this.

Slogging through knee-deep snow, I wrestled the bird feeder down to re-fill it...the tree branches filled with overly-dramatic aviators, impatiently awaiting breakfast. "I don't know why I have to do this," I huffed, sending frozen clouds their way. "According to Matthew, God will feed you." I don't think they heard me in their haste to re-take the trough. 

Brad reminded me later that, as "a special agent of Christ" (Ephesians 1), I am commissioned to feed the Lord's lambs (John 21). I chose not to argue the semantics here. I did not seek out these warbler relationships but here I am, anyway, getting fleeced.

Crowing about the Bills over a long-distance "caw"

 Savannah moved 40 miles away to a neighboring town.

I cried, saying, "Surely nothing could be worse than this."

Savannah moved to Connecticut, some six driving hours away.

I cried, saying, "Surely nothing could be worse than this."

Savannah moved to San Diego, 3,000 miles away...AND took her sister with her.

By this time, I had learned not to tempt fate and shut my mouth.

But I miss my girls. Every. Day. My heart aches being away from them.

They are sensitive to my ridiculousness and do everything possible (aside from just simply coming home) to make me feel better. We exchange calls, texts, pictures, or videos practically every day. Visits are scheduled often. Plans are always in the works. 

And then there are magical moments that just appear organically.

My son-in-law is a Miami Dolphins fan and we love him anyway. Those of us raised in Bills country know that being a Dolphins fan can be a deal-breaker when there's talk of a marital union but Douglas's heart-warming story of adopting his dad's team and attending games with his patriarch in childhood was enough to green light the nuptials.

Play-off positions were at stake and the Bills and Dolphins were facing off.

Let the games begin! 

I punted first. 

As you will soon see, I pretty well dominated the field but other players did manage to move the ball effectively as well.

 

As you can see, my son-in-law is gracious and has an admirable sense of self-restraint when it comes to responding to immature, inappropriate, abusive trash-talk. 

I have never enjoyed a sporty event so much. Did you see? We were ALL there! New York-San Diego-and Austin disappeared...my family was together and we were laughing and teasing and having fun. I felt so connected and so grateful. Thank you, Douglas, for being the catalyst of our coming together in the face of our terrible unsportsmanlike conduct.

More than one fork is too much to handle

I am definitely more peasant than princess. I cannot detect subtle notes of...anything. I fidget with multiple forks. My husband sighed, grateful for the privacy of our New Year's Eve igloo, when I carefully re-arranged the crispy onions on my fillet mignon into the shape of a bridled horse head. "Look! It's a fillet filly," I said, rotating my plate so that he could see it better. "I can see it just fine," he told me. 

I am a soup and sandwich girl...as a six-course meal charlatan, my utter ineptitude is revealed before the silver lid is even lifted from the serving tray of every exotically-edible offering. "I wouldn't exactly call cod exotic," my husband corrected as I used one of my five forks as a scalpel to surgically scrape and separate questionable areas. Culinarily-speaking, Brad left, delighted and satisfied with his epicurean adventure. "There's a McDonald's to your left," I mentioned helpfully as we paused for a red light on our drive home.

Little did we know that, a few weeks later, we would attend an even finer dining event...easily surpassing the water-front

fireworks and cozy igloo of our New Year's Eve date.

"Mom," I announced over the phone, "Brad and I are going to pick up a fish fry so that we can eat dinner with you." "O-kay," she answered slowly, mentally adjusting her current menu of Special K with strawberries. "We'll be there in about an hour," I said before hanging up.

Clutching the fish fry-filled environmentally-abusive plastic bag banned by grocery stores everywhere, we were soon knocking on my mother's door. It took me a moment to get my bearings as she had obviously prepared for our visit. Her small kitchen table had been cleared and three place settings now decorated the surface. She had found a paper napkin that was folded carefully, topped with a knife and fork, while utensils also weighed down two similarly folded paper towels. My mother saves EVERY plastic cup that accompanies the twice-a-day arrival of her pills and three of those stood sentinel at each of our place settings. 

Blinking back threatening tears, I forced myself not to look at my husband as I fussed happily about Mom's apartment. This was incredible. My mother's innate need to serve her family outweighed the frustration of not being able to remember that a package of paper napkins was stored in the bottom cabinet. She might not be able to recall that she has a shelf filled with glasses but she certainly knows that she has stored up a week's worth of plastic cups on her counter (Until I sneak the tower away). This was Vee DeLong at her best. 

My mom and husband wrestled over the worst of the seating positions in the cramped corner until my mom reluctantly but graciously let him win. We had dinner as a family. This was incredible.

Now, this obviously isn't the first time that we've shared a meal with my mother. But it was the first time in YEARS that she hosted it. This was the first time that I was back in the guest position...being served by my mother. Shining as she saw to our comfort and enjoyment. Picking up my one fork, I ate the best meal ever...picking up notes of dignity, satisfaction, and pride as my mother smiled, chatting happily away.

We cleared the table so that we could play cards, my mother dismissively waving away our offers to help wash dishes. "It'll give me something to do later," she said, sticking to her well-established script. As we prepared to leave, Brad standing behind me with his arms full of boxes and bags, I hugged my mother good-bye, wishing that I had taken a picture of her set table but knowing that it would have been weird and might have ruined the moment if I had. During my reflective deliberation, my mother was busy scolding Brad, "Don't leave without a hug," she said as he maneuvered his load to make room for her to wrap her small, slender arms around him. This was incredible. I'd definitely give it five stars.