Early Exposure to Empty Nest

Friday, June 5, 2009

Page 15

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

Early Exposure to Empty Nest

By J’AMY PACHECO

As long as I’ve been a mother, I’ve known that I would someday have to face what’s known as Empty Nest Syndrome.

Even when my daughter was in elementary school and insisted I could go to college with her, I knew she’d be leaving me behind one day. (I knew this partly because no kid wants their mom to cramp their style in the dorm, but also because she wants to attend USC, and there’s no way we’ll be able to manage two tuition payments to the Trojans.)

I can’t even imagine what my life will be like when she heads for college and the wide world beyond. But I’m getting a little “empty nest” practice — in a very literal way.

For the four years we’ve lived in our current home, we’ve had a birds’ nest on the underside of our porch. We first noticed it when we came to look at the house and were startled by a bird’s sudden flight as we approached the front door. The realtor who accompanied us remarked that she’d forgotten about a dove nesting on the porch.

By the time we moved in, the dove had moved on. I meant to get rid of the nest, but had enough to do indoors that I forgot all about it.

I was reminded of its presence the following spring, when another dove took up residence. I wasn’t about to evict our winged tenant, so I put off doing anything about the nest until nesting season was over.

But then, I made a remarkable discovery. The tops of our double front doors have an arch of small curved windows, and through them, I could see the nest. Although I was pretty sure the bird could see me, she didn’t seem to mind me peering at her, and even stayed put when I pulled out the camera to take pictures.

Through the windows, I had a perfect seat for observing activity in the nest-nursery. I don’t know how big baby doves are when they hatch, but by the time they leave the nest, they seem huge!

Mother doves, I discovered, can apparently stay on the nest for long periods of time. My husband once suggested we put bird food on the porch so a mother dove could hurry down to eat. But having once found a pile of feathers on the porch, I was unwilling to tempt the mom to enter the domain of the feral cats that roam our desert neighborhood.

By the time that first nesting season was over, I’d decided to leave the nest alone. I had a pile of pictures of adorable baby birds peeking over the edge of the nest, and wasn’t about to demolish the bird hotel that gave me so much viewing pleasure over the spring.

The following season had its highs and lows. A broken egg on the front porch and the sudden departure of the mother bird left me heartbroken. But another mother bird moved in shortly thereafter. The presence of some big and very ugly ravens caused me a tremendous amount of worry. It was better than any television drama, I tell you.

It’s only June, and we’ve already had two mothers move in and out this season. The first mother hatched one baby, and one day, even seemed to pose for portraits as she snuggled her baby against her breast for my camera. I almost cried, it was so precious.

The second mother had twins. She seemed to leave earlier than most mother doves – probably because there wasn’t room for her to sit. For days, I avoided watering the plants on my porch for fear I would startle the babies into prematurely attempting to fly from the nest.

I’ve seen a baby bird make its first flight from the nest, and it’s a scary thing. One of ours ended up dropping to the porch. Afraid a cat or raven would scoop it up, I stood on the porch until it flew up to the roof of my next-door neighbor’s house. It stayed there for a while, then flew across the street to another house.

It seemed uncertain of where to go next, and was still there when darkness came. The next morning, it was gone. I’ll never know if it flew away voluntarily or in danger – or at all.

Watching the birds, season after season, is a study in contradictions. It’s a wondrous thing edged with extreme worry.

I imagine that’s what it’s going to be like when that USC envelope comes in the mail in just a few years. It will probably be worse, because there won’t be a little window through which I can observe, and intervene with a big stick when necessary.

I’m getting some empty nest practice, but I suspect when the time comes, I still won’t be ready.

Ah, well. At least I’ll have my birds.