If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, there's never a dull moment 'round here.
I was reminded of this once again as I entered our attached garage this morning, pressed the door opener, walked to the driver's side door, and then had about ten mini heart attacks as a bird dove into the garage, straight toward my head.
A BIRD, YO.
At 7:23 in the A-M.
The only other bird I would like to see all up in my grill at 7:23 a.m. is Toucan Sam on my box of Froot Loops.
It didn't help the situation any that I am a HUGE wimp. Huge. My 3-year old daughter was more calm than I was. "Mommy, I have a plan!" she said earnestly. "Just put your finger out and the bird will land on it!"
Who does she think I am? Cinder-freakin'-rella? A Disney Princess?
Yeah right. Stick my finger out indeed.
Clearly, she overestimates her mother.
"Quick! Everybody in the car!" I shouted at the kids.
That was my master plan. To hide in the car. From a robin.
We closed the doors as fast as we could, and the kids and I exchanged looks of, "Now what?" as I turned the key in the ignition, started up the van, and honked the horn a few times. Loudly. At 7:25 a.m.
Sorry, sleeping neighbors. Mama don't do her best thinking in the A-M.
In my defense, it was my boys' suggestion. They were convinced that the horn would scare the bird and make it leave the garage. Unfortunately, it just made the bird more frantic, which resulted in it flying at full speed into the ceiling several times, and banging into the overhead light bulbs.
I am now acutely aware of what the phrase, "bird-brained" means.
Determined to get the bird out of our garage, I opened both doors of our 3-car garage, creating a massive opening for a small bird to fly through. Nothing. I backed the car out of the garage. I honked lightly a few times. Nothing. I drove the car into the garage. Honked lightly once more. NOTH. ING. The only thing I accomplished was cementing my place in our lovely neighborhood as, "Mom Who Makes Way Too Much Noise In the Morning".
Finally, I decided it was time for the human touch, also known as Clare + a garden rake. It's a highly scientific technique that basically involves me swinging the rake wildly in the air at the bird, so as not to hurt the bird, but rather to steer it out of the garage, all the while shrieking and doing a wild "freak-out dance" (my 5-year old's words) if the bird came anywhere near my body.
Don't try this at home, y'all.
I threw down the rake and ran back into the van. My 9-year old sighed and said in his most exasperated, Mom-please-stop-acting-like-such-a-big-nerd voice, "Mom, are you done yet? We have to go to school now." Then he let out a you're-totally-cramping-my-style sigh.
My bad. I thought I was protecting my home and family.
As the day went on, I gave up trying to deal with the frantic, feathered beast, and parked my car in the driveway instead of the garage. Once I returned home with the kids after school pick-up, I opened the garage door, hoping that the bird would fly away home. Frantic, flying, more frantic, banging into the ceiling, frantic, flying, more frantic ensued. And pooping.
From the bird, of course.
I gave up. This was now Bill's problem. I have my limits, and chasing birds is one of them. I was about to go back inside the house, when my 8-year old son looked at me and asked, "Mom, can I give it a try?"
Better you than me, buddy.
With that, he picked up the garden rake that had failed me so miserably in the morning, swung it gently in the air a few times toward the bird, and of course, the bird flew RIGHT OUT OF THE GARAGE. Just like that.
Schooled by an 8-year old.
Lesson: Never send a spazzy mom to do a job a calm 8-year old can do.