There's an old saying that goes: "If you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always got." I don't know who said this, but I'm pretty certain they were talking about me.
You think I'd learn by now not to buy those hanging flower baskets for my porch every Spring, but it's easier said than done. See, every year like clock work around the same time I'm hanging my baskets, bird families everywhere are searching for prime real estate. I don't advertise, but apparently they have a good agent. Generally within a week of hanging a new basket, the newlyweds move in. And you know what they say: "New house, new baby."
And so the saga continues. This is where it gets a little tricky. I love my flower beds. It is the one thing that totally belongs to me. It is my retreat. Even if I have only 10 minutes a day, I treasure every minute. I never minded watering, until now. The one thing I've noticed about birds is they are a bit territorial. When I try to go out in the morning to water, I am met by squawking. I believe it is the Father Bird who throws the first punch. He generally flies out of the basket to the adjacent tree. It is there that the "Calling of the Birds" begins. I know how crazy this must sound, but you have to believe me when I tell you Father Bird calls in the troops. Within minutes, fellow birds begin to line my neighbors rooftops. "And War is Declared!"
I can't say exactly what Father Bird has planned but I carefully keep one eye on him and his posse while attempting to water my flowers. The baskets are always the scariest to water because I have to figure out a way to keep my plants alive without the possibility of drowning or blowing a baby bird right out of their nest. I have performed this task for seven years straight. Nonetheless, I feel more like a Ghost Buster with a Proton Pack than an amateur gardener with a hose.
And so I wait. Yes, wait. I wait until those little critters decide to spread their wings and fly. Fly far, far, far, away. I then return back to my Happy Mommy Maestro self. The happy Mommy I was before Alfred Hitchcock's 'The Birds' was reenacted on my front porch.
Before I know it, all is quiet once more. The only sounds that resonate are the hissing from the hose, the morning paper that just slapped against the sidewalk and the new family of birds that just moved into my neighbor's hanging basket (Ha, Ha).
I will spend the rest of this summer season alone. My job here is done. My husband doesn't understand why I even bother buying those darn baskets year after year. Clearly I already know what is going to happen. He likes to say the whole thing is: "For the birds." (pun intended) I like to tell him he's right, "The whole thing is for the birds!"
