I tried to shoo her away. I tried running out of the house and yelling at the mama bird to stay away. “I have young kids,” I shouted. “It’s not safe here!” She ignored me. She is stubborn and persistent. Despite my objections, she built the most beautiful nest in my hanging flower pot. It was clear she had worked hard to make it. I didn’t have the heart to take it down and throw it in the woods. I gave in and let her stay there, accepting the fact that I would have precious eggs and baby birds on my porch in the coming weeks.
It’s not that I don’t like birds—I love bird songs and I think baby birds are adorable. Mostly, I didn’t want the burden of having baby birds on my porch. Last spring, we had a nest in a decorative wreath on the front door of our home. I was convinced my three year old would swing the door open and we’d have dead baby chicks on our welcome mat. It stressed me out for months.
This year, I was determined not to repeat that kind of stress but the mama bird had other plans. I watched as she laid eggs. Tiny, baby blue eggs nestled inside the nest. As my husband and children came to look, I yelled at them to stay away. I had heard that birds may abandon their nests if humans get too close. Google couldn’t confirm or deny that fact so I thought it was better to be safe than sorry. Despite my objections, they continued to get closer to the nest. I found myself relating to the mama bird at that moment. I imagined myself trying to keep my babies safe from a giant perceived threat.
The stress didn’t end there. I was worried about the baby birds during a tornado warning here in Maine. The wind was wiping the planter around. The mother bird (and perhaps father bird?) stayed in the nest with them as they weathered the storm. I watched on, ready to come to the rescue should one of them fall down.
The week before that there was a heat wave. I wondered how the mother bird would get water to her babies. Would it be enough? I put a bowl of water out on my porch, thinking maybe she could do something with it. I didn’t know but my anxiety demanded I do something.
Baby birds have a survival rate of 25%. Those odds aren’t great. If these birds don’t all make it, I’ll be the one removing the nest with the carcass of a hatchling—it was all just too much.
I’m learning a lot about my baggage as a mother. I don’t think this level of anxiety is normal for a woman with a nest on her porch. I think some people may even find it enjoyable to watch the birth and development of nestlings. Instead, I am riddled with anxiety.
I relate closely to the mother bird. I can empathize with the immense responsibility she has to bear to keep her kids safe and alive. Her life is consumed with the constant needs of her children. She is potentially full of fear as she watches for perceived predators, my human family included.
I find motherhood to be the same kind of weighty duty. The constant responsibility to keep them safe from threats is mentally and emotionally exhausting. The unrelenting, always on duty nature of parenthood is unfair and feels unhealthy to me. In many ways, it forces me to neglect my own needs. The sleepless nights serve as a constant reminder of the profound commitment motherhood demands. Even in the middle of the night when I am desperate for a break, there’s no such thing.
The hypervigilance of motherhood is where I relate most to the mother bird. The anxiety to keep them safe and healthy at all times makes enjoying being a parent a challenge. It’s hard to appreciate the fun moments at home when they’re hanging upside down from the swing set. It’s difficult to enjoy them at the beach when they trade off between climbing the rocks (we live on the cliffs of Maine) and riding waves in an unforgiving ocean.
I grew up in the ’80s, the age of the milk-carton kids and “stranger danger.” It was a time when John Walsh appeared on television and, in an understandable attempt to make sense of his son’s abduction and horrific murder, started a vigilante campaign called “America’s Most Wanted.” He appealed to parents to lock your doors and hide your kids. My generation of parents continue this legacy of fearful parenting. This inheritance impacts the way in which we show up for our kids. We’re always there and always watching.
This constant responsibility to always be with my children in order to keep them safe contributes to the heavy weight of motherhood. I feel like I’m never allowed to be without them. I have to watch them vigilantly wherever we go. Even at home, I get nervous letting them play outside without my supervision. Being with my children in this state of hypervigilance is an emotional and physical weight.
When I was postpartum, I knew I needed medication because I was constantly playing out scenarios of my baby dying. I would feed or rock her and just sob with fear and anxiety. With intervention, that compulsion has quieted but I continue to worry about my children’s wellbeing.
By some miracle, the hatchlings survived long enough to successfully fly off from the nest on my porch. I can’t help but wonder if the mama bird can rest now that her children have flown away or if I’ll ever have that sense of peace when I become an empty-nester. Which leads me to question if human mothers are ever really afforded the luxury of rest when it comes to caring or worrying for our children.
After speaking about this with other moms, I’ve realized that worrying about your child is a widely accepted, natural byproduct of having children. I know I’m an anxious mother, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching that mama bird, it’s that we’re all trying our best to help our little ones make it.
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