Children give a hoot about Mom’s talent

It is a little known fact that, when the conditions are just right, I can close my eyes, tilt my head and make the low, warbling, throaty sound of a barred owl calling out for a mate. This is a little known fact because I only do it for my children, and it’s not the kind of thing they brag about to their friends.

I don’t know why I got that particular gift, instead of, say, a lilting soprano, or the ability to draw portraits instead of stick figures or even the basic math skills to balance my checkbook without making a mistake, but that’s what I got.

Barred owls are shy and secretive, preferring to stay hidden in the trees, but when they call, they call out with gusto. I can relate; there is a lot of the hermit in me. I’m happy in my own company, but like the owl, when I’ve got something to say, I can make myself heard.

Since my children were babies, they have stood in the dark with me, pressed close to my side, and listened with wide-open eyes while the owl called and I called back.

A few times we got lucky and a curious fellow left his perch to fly closer, tempted by the hint of something foreign in the sound of my reply, and circle overhead. Naturally, I was a great disappointment – talk about false advertising – and the owl flew quickly away, in search of the real thing.

When they were young, my children considered this talent as proof of my magic. I could talk to the animals, and they talked to me. It gave me a certain status.

Sure, little Johnny’s mother could make chocolate chip cookies from scratch, rather than slice them from a roll of store-bought cookie dough, but could she make the owls talk? No, she could not.

But, three of my four children are teenagers now. And the older they get, the faster my magic fades. My talents are beginning to look eccentric instead of mysterious.

In our house, my 14-year-old daughter bakes cookies. Unlike me, she is capable of mixing eggs, flour and chocolate chips without making the dough too sticky or too dry, and – the trickiest part of all – staying focused long enough to take perfectly baked cookies out of the oven before they burn.

Late one night, a week or so ago, I heard a pair of owls calling to one another outside my window. I went upstairs looking for a child, and found the cookie-baker still awake.

We slipped quietly outside, and when there was a break in the conversation between the lovers, I made my move. I answered his call.

The owls were immediately silent; the male either confused or pausing to considering his good fortune to have lured not one but two prospects out of the darkness. The female took a moment to size up the competition.

Finally, the male spoke to me once, and then turned his attention back to his true love. Their conversation resumed without me. But it was enough. My daughter looked up at me and smiled.

We moved back into the warm house, said goodnight, and as she went to her room, I thought about something I didn’t need the owls to tell me. Things are changing. My powers are fading just as my witty, talented and beautiful daughter, who will be 15-years-old in just a few days, is coming into her own. She has wings. She will make her own cookies and her own magic.

Still, I can’t help but think that someday she’ll remember the owls, and me, and think about the ways we made our voices heard.