I always took this advice to heart, advice more alien today than ever before in an age where social media commentary of one’s children are often squeals of “She’s such a mini-you!” and delighted mothers respond: “OMG, I know!” Where “mummy pride” is taking the form of onesies printed with “I Got it from My Mama” without any specification of what “it” might be, and why “it” was good. She says it with a sheepish smile sometimes, confessionally at other times, with an open laugh that peals like a bell through the room and recently, a bit more somberly, regretfully. She fades into the underbrush with a flit of a wing, a whisper of a rustle … then nothing, leaving in her wake just a feeling of warmth at catching in action something so typically below the radar.Īfter all, have you ever been able to examine one? To see it up close, to touch its soft feathers, peer into its bright black eyes, and feel the scraping of its delicate feet on your skin?įor as long as I can remember, that has been my mother’s mantra.
Muted of colour and quick to dart away for cover at attention.
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