Vultures and children

Three vultures floated above the highway as I drove to the hardware store to pick up my newly usable lawnmower. I hunched over the steering wheel, craning my neck to watch the raptors, their posture like that of dancers, straight and graceful. Low on the food chain, bird-watchers are easy prey to people in need of quick points in a game of consolatory one-upsmanship. Before anyone swoops down, I am not much of a bird-watcher, though what keeps me out full membership in that club is laziness more than coolness. I am a bird-not-quite-watcher, a birdlooker. I enjoy birds when I look at them; I look at them when I notice them; when I remember to make an effort I try to notice them.

I started birdlooking when my older daughter grew into that stage of old baby and new toddler. One of the first words she said was “birdie.” She buzzed her lips to make the ‘r’ – “brrrrrdee!” We loved hearing this, and she loved seeing birds. We lived by a lake at the time and used to take her on walks a lot near the water. Sometimes she trundled on her unsteady legs - that toddler walk almost like hopping from one foot to the other - or she would ride in a baby carrier. When she saw a brrrrrrdee she would point and smile.

“Brrrrdee!” felt great to hear and it made us smile to see her smile and I think we knew somewhere inside that we needed that, even though we were too tired to understand it consciously. So we took a lot of walks. We saw a lot of birds. I started paying attention to the birds themselves instead of just enjoying the “brrrrdee!” every time. I realized I had never seen most of these birds before. Craving progress I make lists habitually, and I always have a pencil and paper in my pocket (unless it’s actually necessary). I listed birds. When I lacked names, I described - orange and black and white, little bird - then looked them up later - maybe a red start? I kept another list at home, a list of all the birds we’d seen that I knew of. It got up to 35 or so before the last time I lost it. (I lost it several times and at least twice recreated it from memory. I won’t do so here. I do have a little dignity.) Larger numbers scratched my itch for improvement, and I began to just like looking at birds.

Half-full or half-empty, goes the cliche, and a joke riffs on it pointing out that technically the glass is all the way full, one half water, one half air. The full half, the half full of water: I appreciate. I notice birds on branches, I heard toads peeping, I laugh at poop jokes. My kids have helped me smile at things I wouldn’t have paid any attention to before, so that in my daily life I have moments of enjoyment and contemplation and enthusiasm I wouldn’t have otherwise have. These moments occur more both with and without my children - all those brrrrdees gave me the habit of looking. The empty half, the half full of air: I am finding joy in buzzards. I am aging and responsibilities multiply while time subtracts. I spend my time often sleepless and on tasks so dull it’s boring to describe them let alone actually do them, like getting lawnmower blades sharpened. Of course I appreciate buzzards, of course I smile to see a squirrel on a limb, I am desperate for enjoyment and I settle for wholesome moments like these because less wholesome pursuits are tiring and expensive and time consuming and energy, money, and time are in short supply.

Young children are like wild Morning Glory - beautiful, vibrant, uncontrollable flowering vines that choke out any life that tries to grow nearby. What I’m saying is you get hungry when you have little kids. You take what you can get and much of what little you can get comes from your kids and is genuinely really great but as an adult. They smile and laugh and learn and it lights you up when it happens, and you need that light because they have blocked out so much of the sun that used to be in your life, and because I am writing about my children I feel I must end on a positive note, because otherwise would feel wrong as if I loved them less but also because it is just more true to do so - I have learned to see enough brrrdees most of the time, though my daughter hasn’t said the word that way in years. Actually, I see brrrrdees more now because she hasn’t said it that way in years, which is to say, as she grows up my life eases up and I have just a little more energy, enough to miss the way she used to talk and to have even more appreciation for the way she used to stop at every flower to smell it, how she used to want to pet every cat and dog we passed on a walk even though at the time I just wanted to get to the bakery to buy bread so we could go home and make lunch and get her down for a nap. The other night we went to a class through the park district where we watched for bats and got to listen to their sonar and through a special device that made it audible and I learned the word echolocation and my daughter bounced on my knee and held my hand and pointed wildly at the bat and told the teacher excitedly what she’d seen and am so enthusiastic about getting to be so enthusiastic with her and to try to remember to be the same way when I’m not with her, and so I smile and lean over the steering wheel while overhead vultures turn circles.