The Birdhouse

For Christmas, PopPop made my son a wooden birdhouse.  When he hung it up, my son was ecstatic over the prospect of birds moving in and becoming our new neighbors.  We tried to explain that in all likelihood no one would move in, but little kids get their minds stuck on a particular idea and it is virtually impossible to derail them, regardless of the evidence. The improbability of anyone moving in was reinforced by the bylaws of our condo association which prohibit birdseed.  Without birdseed, we had nothing to entice any visitors.  But my son wouldn’t listen.  Four year old logic is a realm unto itself.  After a detailed explanation as to why the birdhouse would most likely remain vacant, my son, very adamantly shook his head and replied, “You never know,” thus ending the discussion and refusing to surrender his faith.

            Well, I hate to admit that a four year old’s stubborn assurance proved to be more practical than my mature reasoning but, alas, I have no choice.  Winter put up a bitter fight, but eventually it succumbed to Spring’s enduring warmth.  The ice thawed, the snow melted and soon adult birds set about searching for the perfect place to build a nest.  One day, while sitting outside, my spouse noticed twigs sticking out of the front hole in the bird house.  “Can it be?” we wondered.  “Has someone indeed selected our birdhouse as the ideal residence to start a new family?”  Sure enough, within the week, we started to notice a little bird hanging around our patio.  He would rest on the fence and watch us skeptically, cautiously and if we lingered too long he’d start chirping as if demanding that we leave him alone.

            In the morning, weather permitting, my son and I sit outside and he reads to me.  It is a special time we get to share as he sounds out new words and begins to master others.  Since reading is still a new skill, it takes awhile to wade through just a few pages.  In between sentences, my son will stop reading and expand upon the story, adding details the author either forgot or deemed unnecessary.  Or he will ask questions, impatient to have answers that would be revealed soon enough if only he kept his attention focused.  While he reads, the little bird flits nervously about as if protecting his nest.  Hoping from the fence to the birdhouse and back to the fence he makes himself known by chirping incessantly.  My son, who loves any sort of distraction while reading, often lifts his eyes from the words in front of him to search for the bird.  One morning, in the middle of a sentence, he abruptly stopped reading, picked up his head and smiled, his eyes aglow with the spark of an exciting idea.  “The birds like it when I read,” he declared, and it seemed just about the best motivation in the world to keep doing it.  “I think they want me to keep reading.”

            “I think you are right,” I answered, wanting to encourage him, allow this fantasy to take root because I want him to read and sometimes my wanting him to do something just isn’t enough to encourage him to do it.  Like all kids, he is always more willing to do something if the incentive comes from someone or something other than a parent. 

            “Why?  Why does he like listening to me read?”

            “Because, you are a good reader.” The compliment tinted his cheeks and nudged his lips into a broader smile.  Feeling good about yourself and what you can do is also a good incentive to keep doing it. 

            But the little bird doesn’t only make his appearance when my son reads.  Several days ago, I was sitting out on the patio working on story when the bird came to visit yet again.  My spouse had wanted pictures of him, so I was ready with my camera resting beside my computer.  While the little bugger proved to be more reluctant to have his picture taken than my son, I did manage to get a few decent shots of our lively new neighbor.