Last week, I happened upon a poor soul.
She lay cold and dead, with her magnificent brown and black feathers spread as if to say, "Look at my beauty one last time."
It was a crisp, autumnal morning and the dew glittered across her, glistening. I made a mental note to give her a proper burial after I dropped off my son and daughter at school.
Then, I forgot.
Walking home with my kindergarten at noon, I realized we would walk past our feathered friend when we went inside. I decided some damage control was in order.
I told Li'l Man that something very sad had happened this day. I told him she had died. I tried to shield him from the brutal truth by using euphemisms. I heard myself saying she led a full life. She was probably quite old. She might have even been sick.
His blue eyes widened. Oh, shoot, I think he's upset.
Or, Mom," he says in a matter-of-fact voice.
"ORRR, she could have been killed by predators."
Seriously, someone shield me from my five year old. Seriously, he used the word "predators." It made me want to cry because I wanted her to have died with a full life led.
Why does my son have to be so practical? It might be his crunchy pre-school who taught about the cycle of life last year. They actually had a theme of death this past spring. They talked about passed away relatives. They talked of road kill. They talked of pets dying.
All very practical.
Is it wrong for me to want them to feel really, really sad when something living has died? I'm a softy. Once, I found a run over squirrel still alive in the road as a teenager. I blocked the road, not allowing other cars through, until that squirrel died. I'm the one who like a rabid PETA whacko released all the pet spiders at son's pre-school. I know. Freak!
Coming back to my children, I want them to feel the same compassion and love for life. It's been a hard road with my boys though. They have more of the detached scientist of their grandfather and practicality of their engineer father.
We had some goldfish when they were younger. I was the one who fed them, cleaned their tanks, and talked to them. They grew from their humble beginnings as feeder fish to two gorgeous seven-inch long beauties in our 20 gallon tank.
"Blind" was renamed from the name "Rabbit" (don't ask) because he went blind after three years, but still he flourished. I worried for him. "Spot" was a happy, friendly fish, always shimming against the tank for more nibbles. The kids were not interested in THEIR fish. Li'l man was helpful when it came to dumping a entire container of fish food into the tank one too many times. They couldn't be saved. I cried. I gave them a proper burial. The kids?
THEY COULD NOT HAVE CARED LESS.
To this day, I still don't let them have fish because I am still hurt by their lack of compassion.
Fast-forwarding to this summer, I did have a break-through.
With the forest by our school being torn down, many furry mommies and babies were displaced. Confused spotted fawns. Sad little raccoons. Birds starting over because their nests. Ohh...their nests with their newly-hatched fuzzkins were gone.
I was upset at the destruction of the forest. My kids finally were upset with me. They took it a bit far. They now HATE the workers that are grading, digging, and building the homes. They refer to them as murderers. They insist they should go to jail.
EVERY DAY.
As we walk by the construction site, every day, they mutter hatred at them
So, coming back full circle, I really thought Li'l Man would be upset about the bird
Nope! I guess he's been too indoctrinated about nature and life cycles.
I mention this to my husband. I tell him about the "predator" talk. CG seems proud.
His theory? Do you want to hear CG's theory on how our beautiful, glorious sable-feathered friend died?
He with some small, quiet glee says he thinks the dumb bird probably flew into the window above her still, lifeless body.
Mean! So mean!
I ask CG to take care of the bird. I'm done. I can't even think of a burial.
He scoops our poor lady into a ziploc and tosses her in the trash. Cold bastard. It seems Li'l Man takes after his father in more ways than one.
P.S. Thanks for the beautiful shared FLikr pictures from Egan Snow, Incinerator, Jan the manson {condemns content filters}, tlindenbaum, and -Nat. Don't you hate how you always forget to take pictures about things you want to blog about!
Fuck it! I'm a lush! Four shots of icy cold Stoli's later, I blame it entirely on marrying a Slav. Who else's family could make drinking 12 shots of vodka a holiday experience, eh?
