We returned from vacation, slept too few hours and went to pick the guineas up from the friend who kept them warm and fed while we were gone.
"They'll be easy,'' I had told her. "I read that their poop is dry.''
I'll be eating that statement for a long while.
Most every daily text message on the guineas included descriptions of the ginormous load of poop they blasted each day. One message included video of her cat sitting on the brooder. "Don't they look tasty, Simba?'' said the voice. I figure that's just about when she started counting down our return.
And now that the feathered children -- 12 of them -- are in my charge I can agree that holy shit, they shit. A lot.
As I stuck half of my body into the poop-filled cage yesterday -- dung under my nails, wood shavings embedded into my knees -- I attempted to recall just who the hell I thought I was going to be at 40. Without going through the list of all my fantasy futures, I can tell you that smelling like a chicken coop was not even in the top 100 possibilities. Even stripper would have ranked higher.
We have one cat, who lives mostly outdoors, and six fish out in the pond. Given that Maria is half-way to 5, my days of taking care of infants is long behind me. But whether it's a baby human or a baby bird, the care of any young, living thing is consuming.
I have spent hours cleaning out the cage and even more hours worrying about cleaning out the cage. To clean, I have to grab them and move them to a second cage. Twelve of them. One by one. And though I am no hawk and I sing to them in Spanish, their instinct is to fight and fight. When the cage is clean and they're back in there eating and chirping and scratching and craning their long necks, Maria and I sit and watch them. In the late evening I do it alone. They are relaxing to watch.
As I watched them exercise their wings last night, it hit me hard: As a new mother, I am neurotic, over-thinking and by-the-book. No freaking wonder Maria's early days -- the days of no sleep and cracked tatas -- left me fried. Frita. For years.
Every time one of these birds takes a wet poop, I worry. And, I check the Internet. Um, did that when I had a human infant too. I didn't want to put the birds in a wire-bottomed cage because well, would they be comfortable? When a few of them showed a love for eating wood shavings from their bedding, I called the Farm Depot.
Me: "They are eating the wood shavings. What do I do?"
Farm Depot Guy: "Don't put any in there.''
Me: "Will it hurt them. Will they die?"
Farm Depot Guy: "Nah. They'll eat rocks.''
Me: "Their water is getting really dirty. Do you have a hanging waterer I can buy?"
Farm Depot Guy: "Why don't you just put it up on a few bricks?''
I'm the typical new mother. I want it perfectly and clean. I want to buy my way to success. Farm Depot guy is like a mother of 4. Secure, natural, going with what feels right. No need for gadgets.
When Maria and I went to the Depot yesterday afternoon to get a new feeder, we told Farm Depot Guy we are training the birds to come to us by giving them millet. It is supposed to be like guinea crack and it will make it easier to get them into the coop at night. Read that in a guinea book, I explained.
"Well, you do what you want, but I say that's a waste of time and millet,'' he said. I'd get that same shrug when I told older mothers I pumped breast milk for eight months. Waste of time.
Oh, can I tell you how many nursing, feeding, playing, discipline books I have read? How many failed exercises and theories? Waste of time.
My husband is about to build a bigger box for the birds, one that will get us through the next four weeks until they move to the coop. I've sent him about 10 links with pictures and designs. "You're a little obsessed,'' he said.
And yesterday, I showed him an 8 x 8 x 8 shed at the hardware store and told him it would be the coop of my dreams, with plenty of roosting space for each of the children. He looked at the price tag and rolled his eyes. You don't even want to know how I color-coded my Baby Bargains book.
In four weeks, the birds will be in a coop. Whether it is more Stokke than umbrella stroller is to be determined. When I step outside of my own mania and perfectionism, I can see myself clearly. I can laugh at myself, tell myself to relax and enjoy the moment. (I credit lots of therapy for this...)
My daughter also has taught me a lot about myself. Parenting moments of success and dismal failure have added perspective and depth I would not have had otherwise. I look back and cringe at my "by the book'' moments -- everything from sleep issues to toddler tirades.
But, taking stock of the last few days of over-thought, going with old truisms and the gut are what seem to offer me the most glittering in-the-moment experiences. It is when I let go that all feels good and falls into order.
I will not have the benefit of becoming a no-longer-phased-by-much mother-of-many. So, my kid and my birds -- and any other creature who comes to live with us -- are pushing me forward. Reminding me that, really, all it takes is a little warmth, safety, food, fun, and love.
If you eat a little bedding along the way, whatever.
We survive.
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