adventures in birdsitting

it's not that i'm a bad blogger, it's just that things start happening and suddenly it's too hard to face reality in the form of the written word. the birds just got bigger and bigger BY THE SECOND and then they were full grown and standing at the edge of their little home, peering out into the big bad world - as tiny reminders of the future i face with my own little birds. and so then what? i'm supposed to ignore the too-obvious metaphor that is this blog and non-chalantly keep you updated on the rapid growth and eventual departure of our hatchlings? you want me to talk about empty nest syndrome in a literal sense? sorry. i have a degree in theatre, which means i'm programmed to find meaning and subtext in a cup of coffee.

here's the final chapter. yes, indeed, the final chapter. as the previous deluge of photo posts prove, the birds went from squab to pigeon. they practiced flapping flapping and slowly let go of the safety of the back of the slip. they learned that there's a big world out there, and they found themselves interested in it and i was proud of them for that.

i have a secret. one night, when everyone else was asleep, i peeked in on them and i'm not sure what propelled me, but i had the impulse to make contact. and, for some reason, they let me. maybe they were sleepy. or maybe they understood that i was okay. or maybe they were indulging me. it only happened that one time, but they let me pet their sweet, still yellow tufted heads. i scrubbed my hands clean afterwards, but such encounters, feathers or tiny cheeks and hands, linger for hopefully ever on the fingertips. parental imprinting, i get it.

and this feeling was on my mind when the family said goodbye to our avian counterparts and sealed up the a/c slip for good (or at least for the life of Gorilla Tape, which is pretty heavy duty). Because it turns out that with birds and nests come other things, like tiny bugs that invade households. i spotted one on the ledge near the slip one day and that's all it took to trigger a day's worth of phantom itches and general paranoia. i will admit that choosing between my human family and my bird family was a not so difficult choice. in my brainworld utopia, we exist happily together, without the bugs. in a tiny New York apartment, it's not nearly so simple, or sterile.

this pigeon thing, it's turned out to be a sweet chapter in our family history. as we continue to wonder about our final family portrait, i have no doubt that the little birds will forever influence us, remind us that our little nest is never too full, our lives too busy, our minds or hearts too closed up to make room for more life.

little sis

a little demure, no? bam in the eyes. tyra would be proud.

night 26

and poof! the yellow tufts are gone.

so i assigned genders and familial roles to the birds, based on nothing but a gut feeling. The one on the left is the protective big brother - he started puffing puffing puffing up whenever i peeked in, sometimes pulling a dad move and sitting on his lovely little sister. the more diminutive of the two, she stayed tucked into the corner of the slip. also, she kept her wing feathers crisp and spectacularly white.

as a point of comparison, the brother bird is sitting on the nest - or where a semblance of nest lay among the ever piling up bird crap. he fills up the nest in the same way his parents did way back in the egg days.

work it out little birdies

day 24

i'm not sure if you can tell from the photos, but the birds are growing at an alarming rate. as my mother-in-law noted, they started growing into their schnozes. and the truth is, those were some serious schnozes.

day 23

mom and dad can be sneaky sneaky. they start to feed them closer and closer to the edge of the a/c slip, forcing them out of their shit encrusted corner and closer to the big blue skies of Manhattan.

day 22

practicing the pigeon puff.

day 21

the little yellow tufts give them away. they stay close to the corner of the slip, cuddle up together and squeak squeak squeak.

having a hard time letting go

it's rough, being a parent. and when your children go from infant to adult in thirty days, i would imagine it's a bit of whirlwind. so i don't blame the fellow and his bird instincts to keep those big kids warm on a blustery day. i mean, a week ago this kind of thing totally worked.

day sixteen, big big bigger

Someone should tell Papa Bird those kids are getting a little big for this kind of coddling. I'm pretty sure I heard one of them squeak, "Jeez Dad, I can't breath. Seriously, can you NOT sit on me right now?! Ugh. Stop pushing. Can I use the car later?"

day fourteen, puberty

You know when you're walking through the park and there's a flight of pigeons pecking at, well, anything remotely edible, and there's that one pigeon that looks like it's been through some SERIOUS SHIT - missing the feathers on its head and neck, one wonky wing always half cocked, standing outside the group clucking away to itself? That's what two week old pigeons look like.

day ten, taking squab off the menu

My name is Maia, and I'm an Eco Parent.

An Eco Parent, for those of you who have not yet had the pleasure, is one who has chosen to focus the majority of one's parenting self-righteousness on their ability to Save the Planet via their children. Eco Parents shop consignment, because new is selfish and creates more waste. Eco Parents buy organic and local and BPA free because toxins are bad for the environment, not to mention sperm count. Eco Parents are, at times, overly vocal about their avoidance of plastic toys, quoting Swedish studies about phthalates and New Zealand reports on crib death. Eco Parents, the true, the staunch, the dedicated, use cloth diapers.

For 22 months, we have wrapped those prize winning asses in soft, bleach free cloth. This means that, over the course of those 22 months, we saved approximately 8000 diapers from an eternal life in a trash heap. It's a lot of diapers. And yes, the water to clean them and transporting them to us and all of that make an impact, it's not a perfect system, but in the long term (and with fingers crossed that alternative fuel sources - and no, McCain, I don't mean drilling in Alaska - finally get their day) we're going to leave slightly smaller of a mark. Cloth diapers were pretty easy, really. But you have to pack out the dirty ones, meaning the diaper bag gets heavier - and stinkier! - over the course of the day. And you can't throw them out, so in the heat things get pungent. This was all doable when we lived in Los Angeles, because everything could just go in the trunk and, voila!, problem solved. Here in the Big Apple, you either put the dirties in your purse or your apartment, which, purse trends and Manhattan apartments being what they are, are relatively the same size.

We gave up cloth diapers about two weeks ago. On Earth Day. There was a concession - disposable diapers in, meat out. Or mostly. Two days a week we are vegetarian and our meat consumption is on a local product only basis. After my wife concocted this genius and uncharacteristically hippy scheme, I made some sort of wise crack about how I was going to miss eating squab, and what terrible timing, all things considered.

"What do you mean you're not eating squab? What's squab?" asked my mother-in-law.

"Squab is baby pigeon." I am, of course, not only an expert on pigeons but also a die hard watcher of Top Chef.

"Oh my god, no it's not. I thought squab was something else. Like quail."

"Nope."

"Are you sure?"

I consult Wikipedia because for a second I am not sure, but still very sure, but need to prove a point.

Squab, in culinary terms, is the meat of a young, domestic pigeon. Squab for the table is about one month old, when the birds have reached adult size but cannot yet fly. It turns out that this age is good, not only because the meat is more tender but because it's much easier to hunt birds that can't elude you. Talk about fish in a barrel.

Crispy Squab with Homemade Plum Sauce

* 2 squabs, 12 to 16 ounces each, cleaned and rinsed
* 3 cups chicken stock
* 1 cup roughly chopped green onions
* 3 tablespoons minced fresh garlic
* 5 tablespoons soy sauce
* 2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger
* 2 tablespoons rice wine or dry sherry
* 2 tablespoons dark brown sugar
* 1 tablespoon honey
* Homemade Plum Sauce

- Blanch the squabs for 2 minutes in boiling water. Set aside.

- In a medium saucepan, combine the chicken stock, green onions, garlic, light and dark soy sauce, ginger, rice wine, brown sugar, honey, and salt and bring to a boil. Add the squabs and simmer uncovered for 20 minutes.

- In a medium pot heat enough peanut oil to come halfway up the sides to 350 degrees F. Carefully add the squabs and fry until the skins are crisp and golden brown, about 3 minutes. Remove and drain on paper towels.

- Mound rice in the center of 2 plates and drizzle with a small amount of the poaching liquid, if desired. Place the squabs in the center of the rice and spoon the Plum Sauce over the top of the birds. Garnish with chopped green onions. Serve hot.


If only we had stayed with those cloth diapers for two more weeks and if only I hadn't grown so attached to the little guys because, wow, it doesn't get more local than this.

make a little bird house in your soul

My brunette son does not shy away from enthusiasm. A thrilling event never ceases to amaze him, no matter how banal or repetitive it may seem to the rest of us. So you can only imagine the shrieking, running, open mouthed, hands flailing, can you fucking believe it?! response when he heard the faint squeaking of growing squab. "Birdies!! Birdies!! Birdies!! AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"

And THEN imagine the tenor of response when we peered into the slip and got a gorgeous view of the tiny birds, and tiny birds only. All his limbs went stiff, his mouth in a perfect O and I thought he was going to spin on his left heel and then slowly drop to the ground and shimmy to a stop, like a quarter coming to rest on the pavement. Instead he put his little hand around my neck and we just watched those tiny fluffs until he remembered about his new trucks and got too excited to stay in my arms.

day five

They sure do grow fast. The bodies, at least. The wings seem impossibly small. But there's time - and I'm not interested in rushing it.

day two

That's the first born, looking straight at the computer. The head is sort of cocked to camera right - that pink smudge in the middle is the schnoz. The bird is sporting a hair-do circa 1989.

proof

My wife took that top shot with her blackberry during her morning rounds. Neat, right?

When I went to go see for myself, I took the second photo.

The world is up two baby birds. Somewhere under that mass of paternal feathers are two tiny birds with nothing but potential. My inner sentimental sap (the part of me that openly weeps during The Biggest Loser) is already considering the day when they take their once scrawny but now strong wings out for a spin, leaving the nest, literally soaring away to make their own life in this pigeon haven of a city.

a bird is born

BABYBIRDBABYBIRDBABYBIRDBABYBIRDBABYBIRDBABYBIRDBABYBIRDBABYBIRD!!!!!!!

No camera. Totally left the camera is New Jersey. Fuck.

You're just going to have to take my word for it. I tried taking a photo of the wet splotch of feathers and scrawny leg peaking out from under the momma bird with the Photo Booth application on my not-so-compact computer. I will not be waiting by the phone for a call from National Geographic, but if you kind of squint you can see a sort of suggestion of tiny yellow bird.

I can't believe the thing hatched. Holy Shit. Welcome to New York, little bird.

buns in the oven

And then comes the day that the expectant mother turns to her loving and supportive other half and says, "Honey, it's time!!" and then there's a wacky montage of frantic packing and getting everything in the car and almost driving off without the wife and general chaos until all are safe and sound in a delivery room. At that moment, all the waiting comes to a quiet halt, in those final minutes, or hours, before everything changes forever and it's sweet. You know that it's started, the final stretch, so you can start the phone tree and charge the camera and watch Hair and do practice Bar essays, and all those other things that people do in labor and delivery rooms.

You don't really get that magical moment with birds. Not so much.

The eggs haven't hatched, yet, I guess. This morning's report had poppa bird, all puffed up, covering the brood. Now momma bird is sitting there. It's pretty quiet. Except that momma bird, who, as you'll recall is a bit on the skittish side - I'm not judging, I'm just reporting the facts - and usually gets up and flies off when too many nosey neighbors come to visit, won't budge. In fact, every time I open the slip (which, I realized at some point early this morning, is surprisingly similar to an oven door, for those of you who enjoy a good metaphor) she puffs up and hunkers down. She's up to something.

I figure I'll know when the tinies have arrived because they will make some sort of baby bird sound. I am hoping it is a sweet melodic sound that lulls my own children into taking long naps and sleeping until 7AM.

doing the pigeon

As is their routine, the wife and the boys check on the bird first thing in the morning. Then they report back any interesting facts. These facts often include things like "bird" "egg" "nest" and "Hi!!". This morning's report was no different.

Imagine my surprise, please, humor me and try to feign surprise, when I checked on the little brood this morning only to find the nest EMPTY. Well, not empty, really, the eggs were still there, but there was no parental unit in sight. I took a few deep breaths, someone just went out on a coffee run or something, it's fine. Forty-five minutes later, I had checked that nest so many times even the boys had bored of it, but still, just the eggs.

I peeked outside to check the weather - and, yes, the most accurate way to gauge the weather is by opening the A/C slip and checking the weather in and around the nest - and that's when I saw her. Momma bird, on the ledge across the street. Waddling back and forth, putting on some show like she was looking for a nice worm, but I could tell, I recognized that look in her little orange eye - she was WATCHING me. SHE was watching ME. The tables had turned.

For the next thirty-seven minutes or so we engaged in a sort of dance. I pulled open the slip cover, she snorted at me like a riled up bull. I drew back the shades, she bobbed her head back and forth as if to say, "I can still see you, woman." Eventually I gave up, or one of the boys had the other one in a full nelson and a referee was required, but when I made it back to the slip, she was sitting on the nest, like nothing had ever happened.

In this game of chicken, the pigeon won.

shout out

These nesting birds hail from the beautiful East Village of Manhattan, where they enjoy roosting, eating leftovers from Veselka and shitting on people in Thompkins Square Park. Thanks, Allie, for helping us unite the island birds.


To all the other birds breeding in the nooks and crannies of our fair city, we salute you.

working on the night shift

poppa bird.

last night i had a dream

The details are totally foggy, as details in dreams often are, right? The only thing I can remember are the birds. There were our birds, the momma bird with her dark, exotic feathers, the father bird with his gorgeous blond locks and the two eggs. Except in my dream the birds had nested in a sort of interior air shaft - you New Yorkers know the type, that weird four foot square of space that separates your bedroom "window" from your neighbors - and instead of two grown birds there were three.

I was really worried about the birds, in my dream, because it seemed like too small of a space for so many birds and I wasn't sure who exactly that third bird was - a second wife? a mistress? a mother-in-law? All I knew was that where my quiet, serene little nest once stood there was a sort of pigeon Penn Station, birds coming in and out. And those little eggs seemed terribly precarious and particularly precious and the big oaf birds weren't paying them nearly as much attention as I wanted.

I woke up, sometime around 7AM, to the sound of laughing children, giggling at those things that make the unencumbered giggle, and busying themselves with things like toast and dancing and blocks. From time to time there would be a gentle pause, the peak in an upswing of joy, and to my proud ears would float a tender phrase, "Hi birdie."




For those of you counting, and please, who hasn't yet marked it on their calendar?, we are as few as three days out from our first baby bird. Stay tuned.

bird watching

You might just make it after all.

Way back in September of '08, we got a notice from our building manager that there would be some work done on the building the following day, cleaning the facade, and to please close our windows to prevent dust and debris from entering our "renovated" apartments. Even though it was 106 degrees with 99 percent humidity, and even though we are stubbornly anti air-conditioning, I shut the windows. Nothing happened except that our blond son was super red and sweaty for most of the day. A few days later, a scaffolding went up. Then something that resembles a window washing apparatus was installed. I have not seen a workman since.

Until today. Ropes are swinging, things are moving and the pigeon and I are NOT happy about it. My mind is working overtime conjuring up terrible scenarios that involve brash workmen cruelly tossing the nest, eggs and momma bird and poppa bird and all, into the middle of 49th St. I have started composing overly emotional letters to the construction company, the building manager, Governor Patterson, Betty White. I feel momentarily hopeless and then I remember Pale Male.

The story of Pale Male is the story of a young bird and his young bride who set up a little home on a little ledge and tried to start a little family. After siring perhaps a dozen tiny tinies, his nest was removed. Outrage ensued. Mary Tyler Moore got involved. There was a documentary or twelve made about the bird. The nest was replaced and all were happy again. See? Everything's going to work out. Except that Pale Male is a stately red tail hawk who set up shop on a 5th Avenue ledge with spectacular views of the park and a board chock full of animal rights celebrities. My bird has not so much going for her.

Well, as any mother out there would agree, I'm going to have to do what I can to protect the young. And it looks like I'm going to have to do it right now, because there are two workmen outside my window, dangerously close to my little nest.

I'm back. Here's how it went: I scurried to the window, knocked on it and yelled at the man standing on the other side:

Me: Hi. Excuse me, sir, I just have a quick question for you. You see, this is going to sound funny, but there's a bird in the A/C slip under this window and it's made a little nest, see, and I just want you guys to be aware of it, the little bird and the nest, with the eggs, under that window, and I'm not sure what kind of work you are planning on doing, but if you could just promise me that you'll be conscientious of the bird's nest and try to work around it. I would really appreciate that.

Workman #1: Eh?

Fuck. I can only come up with the Spanish words for pigeon and egg. I fear this will not be good enough to fully convey what must be conveyed. I scurry to the other window. There is a man standing there who appears to be an English-is-my-first-language kind of guy.

Me: Hi. So, see, right below this window is an open A/C slip and there's a bird in there and she's nested. There are two eggs in the nest.

Workman #2: You want us to get it out of there?

Me: (panicked) No!! No no!! I want you to just leave her be!! Please. If you could just be considerate and work around her, I would really appreciate it. I've grown sort of...attached.

At this point I look down in the direction of the little bird and her fledgling brood, in some sort of attempt to forge a bond between the workman and the nest, only to notice that I am wearing a T-Shirt with two little birds silkscreened on the front. I am now the crazy bird lady on the fifth floor. I look back up at the guy and sort of shrug.

Me: Please?

Workman #2: Yeah. It should be no problem.

I believe him because I have no other choice. If worse comes to worse, does anyone have Mary Tyler Moore's number?

Double Deuce

The usual wait time to find out if one is pregnant is approximately 14 days after the egg, or eggs, have implanted. In the case of IVF, two blood tests are performed, one at 10 days and one at 14 days. It is, as I recall, the longest two weeks of one's life. After our third round of IVF, we went back east for a wedding and would be forced to wait an extra three days for our second blood test. (I use the plural pronoun here liberally - obviously only one of us was consistently at the pointy end of a medical needle.) We are not particularly patient people so it was no surprise when we took matters into our own hands.

After about a week of waiting, we bought our first pregnancy test. Negative. We assured each other that it was too early, and with all the hormones probably not terribly reliable and then decided to check again the next day. And by next day, we meant the next time the possibly pregnant one had to piss.

If memory serves, it was the sixth pregnancy test that, after proper basting time, showed the faintest of pink lines in the "yes you are pregnant" box. We assured each other that it could be wrong, and with all the hormones probably not terribly reliable and then decided to continue to check every hour on the hour for the next three days. As if IVF isn't expensive enough, we racked up quite a bill at the local Duane Reade.

By day 12, we were pretty sure. 17 pregnancy tests can't be wrong. Then the doctor did his fancy blood tests and had a nurse call to give us the good news.

Turns out, it takes about the same amount of time to find out if one is having baby pigeons. The experts say anywhere from 14 - 17 days of incubation. I have no idea when the little eggs showed up, but I'm going to assume the first one has been there about a week and the second one about 5 days. So if those little eggs are going to turn into little, really ugly baby birds, by my calculations things should start shaking on April 22.

manhattan mothers of multiples

The boys, bless them, have incorporated the bird and the nest and the eggs and mommys obsession into their ever growing world view. The very first word out of the blond's mouth this morning was "bird". Sometime after naps, the brunette looked up at me with those lovely blue today, green tomorrow eyes, gently took my hand in his and said, simply, "bird." I nearly burst into tears.

Before the big reveal, I explained to him that the bird might be a little scared and so we should be quiet and gentle around it. He nodded with appropriate solemnity. I opened the cover. He gasped a little and then waved to the bird.

I felt a tiny hand on my leg. There was the blond, arms outstretched in the universal sign of please include me in what you are doing right now, chanting "bird, bird, bird, bird." I bent down and picked him up. He peered into the slip and let out the faintest little squeal.

The bird looked up at us, me with a boy in each arm, got off the nest and flew away. The boys said, "bye bird" and went back to their endless task of scattering tiny pieces of cracker throughout the apartment.

I can only imagine what went through that little bird brain. There she was, a young, expectant mother, about to welcome two little ones into the world, facing the daunting enterprise of raising them in the big city, worrying about poisoned breadcrumbs in the park and taxi cabs and generally fucking them up before shoving them off the ledge, feathers crossed that she'd properly taught them to fly. And she'd spent the last however many days listening in on the insanity of our tiny apartment - all the screaming and the music and the stomping and the peeing on things and destroying of block towers - likely wondering what sort of madhouse she was perched aside. Just to learn that it's the apartment of two young mothers, with two little ones, trying to make it in Manhattan. And the poor thing probably needed a drink.

The good news is, she came back ten minutes later. When I checked on her after dinner, she gave me a look of quiet understanding.

lucky number two

at first, there was one egg. but things have changed.

lucky number two has joined the brood.

names, anyone?

knife and fork

My friend Kathryn found a sweet cat next to the Silverlake dog park. She cuddled him and cooed to him and handed him to me. He pooped all over my T-shirt. There was no going back.

My child rearing philosophy is born of my cat rearing philosophy - just let them roam, safely, with a collar, and they'll be fine. (Note to Mom - this doesn't mean in two years I'm going to send my kids to live with you. I know you have two of my cats and the dog, but I've learned my lesson and I'm hanging on to the tiny humans.) So Irving the cat roamed the streets of Venice and was invited into more living rooms than a Mormon missionary. He lost his tail somewhere along the way. Irving is, as they say, a badass.

When I moved in with my soon-to-be-wife, it was a big deal. Here I was, moving in and she had two cats already, the girls, who had zero interest in some young, upstart, westside tabby without a tail, much less me. I clung to Irving as my furry soul mate. I hoped we would bond over our shared single-life history but he hissed at me, took off one day and came back with my replacement. He needed a youngster, a sidekick - and he found him in a local feral cat we came to call Julius. Julius looked like an extra from Oliver - perfectly smudged "homeless" make-up, at least two too many toes on each foot, a ruffian in every aspect. Julius showed up one day and never left. He ate our food, used the kitty litter, slept at the foot of our bed. We touched him once, and only once, and have the scars to prove it.

Julius came home one day with a nasty cut on his back foot and we knew we had to catch him and we knew it would result in casualties. After a day or so of failed attempts to lure him into the carrier, we opted for a large beach towel and some kitchen mitts. He bit us both, Lara got it in the fold between her left thumb and forefinger, my right thumb nail will never be the same. Within hours our hands were unrecognizable. The next day my wife and I emerged from our respective health-clinic cubicles with matching antibiotic butt shots and arm slings. The only way to cut our chicken dinner that night involved my left-hand wielded fork and her right-hand wielded knife.

When forced, everyone learns to adapt.

Julius and Irving stayed in Los Angeles, because we couldn't imagine moving them both and we couldn't imagine breaking them up. They are a perfect pair. A neighbor adopted them. As you can see from the above photo, they are doing fine.

Congratulations, it's a bird!!

Child psychology experts seem to agree that one should tell one's two year old that another little one is on the way fairly early on, usually about the time the pregnancy is obvious. Babycenter.com advises not waiting too long after breaking the good news to the world to break the great news to the soon-to-be older siblings. Certainly, the boys, as twins, have a general concept about brotherhood and siblings and sharing parents and all of that, and they're bound to hear about the blog sooner or later, so today seemed like a good day to introduce them to the egg.

The whole thing happened sort of spur of the moment. For those of you paying attention, and with semi-decent short term memory, you'll recall that the nest discovery occurred during an attempt to fix an ill-fitting A/C slip cover. And my wife, my understanding, forgiving, tolerant wife, promised to not call the super in to fix it until the tiny has hatched and flown away to live its life. What this all means is that the A/C slip cover remains broken and falls open from time to time. I find it gives the apartment a more "open" feel, but really it just lets in the fumes from 49th St. And it offers a fantastic opportunity to bird watch.

So there we all were, me, my wife, my boys, Uncle Buubie and my mother-in-law, when the A/C slip cover plopped open. And then there we were, me, my wife, my boys, Uncle Buubie, my mother-in-law, the bird and the nest. As a parent, you just roll with it.

US: "Hey, guys, do you see that? What is that?"

THEM #1: "Birrrd."

THEM #2: "Tweet tweet tweet."

US: "It's fun to have a bird around. We want the bird to stay here. The bird needs us to be quiet."

THEM #1: "Shhh." Finger to lips in universal sign of "please be quiet".

THEM #2: "Night night."

US: "The bird is sitting on an egg. Just like in Horton."

THEM #1: "Birrrd."

THEM #2: "Elephant."

Then I introduced the wife to the egg and the bird, and the mother-in-law, who seemed more excited than expected to be that close to a pigeon, and then Uncle Buubie.

I have caught them all, at least once since, checking on the egg.

Ovoviviparous

I used to have fish. I told the guy at Petco that I needed the heartiest two fish five dollars could buy. He gave me two sort of generic looking gold fish - platties they're called - that's them on the right. They were hearty, as promised. I fed them mostly regularly and cleaned the tank. I got other, fancier fish along the way, but they couldn't thrive under my half-hearted care. My two platties were named Jason and Kori, as a unit we referred to them as Mates of State.

The wife and I took a trip to Alaska a few years back. While we were gone, I'm pretty sure I asked someone to come over and feed the fish. I'd like to think I did, at least. I know that when we got home they were still alive, happy as fish can be, swimming around in their little water world. I smiled at them, waved, and "what the fuck? Is that a baby fish in there? Babe, come here and look at this! I think there's a tiny fish in there! Holy shit. There's another one."

Our first pair of twins was born.*





*Four years later, toting our human twins through the Coney Island Aquarium I learned the following fact about fish reproduction: most fish are oviparous, meaning the egg is fertilized outside the mother's body. But a small percentage are "live bearers," meaning the egg is fertilized and develops within the mother's body and the babies can swim immediately upon birth. Platties are the latter.**


**Our human twins are a combination of the two.

And introducing

momma bird.

mother hen

I have had to force myself to focus on other, "more important", things, like family and tradition and kugel and yeast-less chocolate cake. This all resulted in a super lovely Passover seder. Now back to the birds.

Papa has returned. He is a robust bird, proud and protective. When I open up the slip cover, momma tends toward the skittish, but papa sits strong. I admire him much for this. Also, the egg is back in the nest. I'm not sure why I believe that 30 or so twigs loosely woven together somehow produces an enormous warmth, like a wool blanket hand knitted by your great grandmother, but I do. I am giddy at this update. I turn to my wife, "don't you want to see him?" She tells me to check the messages.

Without getting into detail, I have accomplished a good deal in my life. And my parents have always been supportive. But never before have I heard such unbridled, unconditional love in my mother's voice. The pride is palpable. She didn't even ask about her grandsons in the message. She wants to Skype with the nest so she can check "see baby pigeon" off her bucket list. Which is interesting, because I've been considering a web cam...

because cornell said so

from pigeonwatch-mailbox reply-to pigeonwatch@cornell.edu to Maia Spotts date Thu, Apr 9, 2009 at 1:19 PM subject Re: nest

Dear Maia,

If they nest successfully in your a/c slot, you might have pigeon company for some time to come. Rock Pigeons breed many times during the year, and because they have this flexibility they are very successful at reproducing. Anotherwards, if this nest doesn't work for them they are quite capable of starting another one right away. Please check out our information about nesting at the Project PigeonWatch web site. Pigeons will appreciate food, water, and shelter, but please be aware that if you make a nice place for them, more will come! If you attract large numbers of pigeons it can work against them, because people will notice and feel they are a nuisance. You need not feel obliged to do anything to interfere or help. Use this wonderful chance to observe nesting behavior first-hand. The male and female usually trade off incubating the egg once they begin the process...but a fertilized egg will be viable for some time before the parents must begin the development process by incubating the egg.

tiny squawker

When I awake, I am greeted by my lovely family - the boys are smiling and waving at me, my wife is beaming. My mother-in-law is still perfecting gefilte fish (an impossible task) and Buubie is sleeping peacefully. I ignore them all and head straight for the birds. At first I panic - through the tiny slit opening in the A/C cover I can't see anything, I can't see the bird, I can't see the egg, I am on the verge of a complete melt down. I hold back tears. I regret everything, the matzoh, the blog, everything.

I look again and there she is. This morning there is a different bird atop the egg, the mother I am assuming, only because she is smaller and slimmer than the bird with whom I first had contact. Were I dealing with humans I know this would be assumptive and stereotypical and blah blah, but with pigeons I feel as though the general rules of gender apply. If my father has taught me anything about birds, it's that the female is always going to be less impressive than the male, in size and presence. And so it is with my aviary friends.

There is one problem... the egg is no longer in the nest. It's next to the nest, on the cold, unforgiving metal. The mother bird is still sitting on it, incubating is the term we pigeon masters use, but I worry, nonetheless. For those of you who aren't keeping up with NYC weather, it's fucking cold here. And here's this little egg, no winter coat, no heat lamp, just a bird sitting on it to keep it warm. I ignore thousands, if not millions, of years of successful pigeon breeding and convince myself it's time to intervene.

But what does one do in such a situation? I consider scaring off the mother, returning the egg to the nest, bringing the whole thing inside and turning the bathroom into a pigeon NICU - proper humidity, surrogate pigeon parent puppet, training the cats to gently sit on the egg - everyone pitching in to provide 24 hour care. What better opportunity to teach the boys about the cycle of life? And what a funny story they can tell their friends about their totally insane mommy who shut down the house in order to hatch a pigeon egg.

night owl

We have visitors. My mother-in-law on the pull out couch, Uncle Buubie on a blow up in the boys room. I resist the urge to tip toe downstairs in the middle of the night to see if momma bird has returned, not because I don't want to wake these visitors up, but because I feel the need to mask the true obsession. At 4AM, I am thinking about the bird.

And, I have a feeling, so are you.

a cry for help

from Maia Spotts to pigeonwatch@cornell.edu date Wed, Apr 8, 2009 at 8:49 PM subject nest mailed-by gmail.com I have recently discovered a nest in my empty A/C slip. There was a pigeon sitting on the single egg for a few hours, the nest has been abandoned for about an hour. I'm wondering what I can do to help the egg thrive... and what I should avoid doing to drive the parents away. Any tips you might have would be helpful. I have no interest in scaring them away, only in helping them survive. Should I put some food out? Should I just leave them alone? Please advise. Maia Spotts NYC, NY

hour two

i tried to give the bird some matzoh because it's the closest we have to bird feed in the house. the bird moves away from the nest. the next time i check, the egg is alone. i have a minor break down. i start googling.

what i learn is that it's actually OK for a tiny, little helpless egg to be without parent for a little while. in fact, pigeon parents split the parenting responsibilities - dad sits during the day, then takes off, and mom shows up late night to keep the little bugger warm. i have yet to find a site that recommends i bring the egg inside and sit on it for the next 16 days. i persevere.

for all the hatred that pigeons may inspire, there exists a wonderful number of support sites. the truth is, folks, i'm dealing with a pigeon. as if this thing has never seen a human, never encountered matzoh, can't cope with city life. we're talking about a bird who built a nest in an abandoned air-conditioning vent. life has thrived in worse conditions.

hold on, i have to check the nest.

an elephant's faithful

i have this tattoo on my arm, it reads "one hundred per cent" and it's inspired by a Dr. Seuss book about an elephant who sits on an egg, patiently and impatiently, for many weeks until the thing hatches and, because the elephant cared and dedicated itself and loved that little egg, the tiny tiny that emerges is part bird and part elephant, even though genetics would have dictated otherwise. i have this tattoo because i am not the biological parent of my twin boys, and yet i sat, day in and day out, waiting for them to be born, loving those little eggs, and when they did show up, perhaps they showed signs of the parental me, for no other reason than I cared. in my family, we call this the Horton effect.

so it is no surprise that a little pigeon family picked our empty A/C slip to start a brood, one little egg in one little nest, and that i discovered it just in time to become completely and totally obsessed. here's what's happened so far:

my wife discovers a decent amount of bird shit inside our apartment. we are appropriately disgusted.

i sweep said bird shit away so that the boys don't eat it and get mad rat disease or something worse.

i kick the A/C slip cover half a dozen times in an attempt to shut it.

this attempt fails.

i open A/C slip.

i see a bird, a big fat momma bird, sitting on a nest.

the Horton effect kicks in.