Drama can’t spoil love in this nest

Tucked under the eaves of my roof, just above my head when I sit on the patio, a birdhouse hosts a family of swallows each summer. The hard-working parents show up and build a nest as soon as the weather warms. It isn’t long before I can hear the babies.

That’s when the real work begins: From sun up to sun down, the swallows dive and swoop, scooping up insects to carry back to their young. They are met with wide-open mouths and a frenzy of sound.

The hatchlings mature, growing more and more demanding with each day. It goes on and on and on.

I like to sit in the shade, sipping a glass of wine or tea, and watch the drama. I can’t help but wonder if the mother and father birds ever get tired of the never ending find-and-feed roundelay. The babies never let up. “Feed us,” they scream. “Feed us.”

Do swallows ever just snap? Do they ever want to fly up to the birdhouse, put their face close to the faces of their offspring and say through clenched beaks, “Listen, I’m tired. I’m worn out. Get your downy little backsides out of this nest and go find your own grub”?

I admire their restraint.

Last week, I took a few snapshots of this summer’s family of swallows. I downloaded the images to my computer. The photo told the story. The baby, all mouth, filled the front of the house like a hungry cuckoo waiting for the clock to strike the hour.

But the parent, in the rush to feed the baby, was a blur. You could just make out the outline of her body beneath her beating wings.

The original fast-food.

I called out to the teenager sprawled on the sofa across the room, one hand lazily dipping in and out of a big bag of chips, to come look at the photograph. The teenager did as I requested. We were still admiring the snapshot when I was startled by an outburst.

“Oh, jeez Mom, not again,” an angry voice cried. “You downloaded to the wrong folder again. How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?”

Now I looked like a baby bird, my startled face turned up to the child beside me, mouth agape.

Biting back my irritation, I left the room. I ran a comb through my hair, picked up my purse and announced that I was going to the grocery store. Alone. Then I left the house.

My nest has its own drama.

I drove to the store and walked around until I cooled off. I simmered while I shopped.

I loaded the bulging shopping bags into my car, a fresh supply of food for the hungry mouths in my house, and drove home.

As soon as I walked back in the house, the offending teen materialized and stayed by my side as I put everything away. We chatted quietly, talking around the apology that hung in the air.

Later that evening, alone on the patio, I watched the swallows through the twilight.

The babies in the little house under the eaves called out for more. And more. And more.

Inside my house a child called my name, moving from room to room, searching for me. I heard the pantry open and the sound of someone rustling for food.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement and saw one of the adult swallows stop to perch on a nearby branch.

We were both still, hiding in plain sight. Resting but on alert.

I’m sure the swallows don’t stop to consider it, and I try not to think about it constantly, but we both hover and flutter and return to the nest, even when we want to go in the other direction, because fatigue and irritation always fly away. Time flies away.

Eventually, children fly away, too.