A Tale of Two Birdies

The other day, I saw a bird with its head stuck in a fence. It was simultaneously comical and awful--I drove down the road past its backside and wings frantically thrashing to be freed as another bird sat on the fence posts looking on. I drove down the hill, the sun a hazy orange ball just above the horizon, and I had a nagging feeling--OCD, God, human decency? I don't know what. But I turned back.

Q and I got out of the car and walked to the head-side of the bird in the fence. Its jet black eyes regarded us without emotion, so we walked around to the other side of the fence, and I instructed Q to take off her hoodie. I gently cupped the bird's body in my hands with the hoodie draped over them and lifted it (it was so light!) until its head slid all the way through the top of the slats. It wasted no time in recovery or gratitude, but shot straight into the sky as soon as it sensed it was free. The significance of what we'd done was lost on the Q, who was thrilled at having stolen an additional 10 minutes from bedtime and at being allowed to run in a grassy median alongside the Tuesday evening traffic.

It reminded me of another hilariously awful bird interaction which, I think, nicely sums up what life on this earth is like. Before Q turned 3, my mother was visiting, and we happened upon the neighbor's tabby cat deftly carrying a small, live bird in its mouth. I yelled and chased the cat, who dropped the bird just inside the chain link fence of a green house on on our block before beginning a cruel, teasing game of hide and seek with it. My mother and I tried to coax the cat away from its prey, who despite a small limp looked in pretty good condition, when I spotted the cat's owner across the street.

"Buster's playing with a bird!" I yelled at him, and he swaggered over (he always swaggers), boldly entered the yard belonging to the green house, and snatched up his cat. I held Q's hand as she, my mom, and I walked briskly back to the house to find something in which to place the bird while we decided what to do with it. We settled on an empty cardboard box from the mudroom and hurried back toward the scene, Q chattering incessant questions as we went.

We were just in time to see the little bird hop feebly into the road just as a large construction vehicle, undoubtedly carrying a bed-full of dirt from the berm project in Lion's Park, rumbled past the green house. I let the hand carrying the cardboard box drop to my side, and my mom and I paused on the sidewalk before turning back toward the house.

The cat who caught the bird, by the way, is also deceased.

And that, I think, is probably the story most fittingly analogous to life that I can think of.

Thoughts on Screen-Free Week

A week without Dad jokes is hardly a week at all

Day 1. The anxiety hit me like a ton of bricks. Left alone with my thoughts, I quickly became bogged down and longed for distraction. I tried to read a book, but that made the anxiety worse. I felt utterly unconnected, like the rich, vibrant thrum of the online life was carrying on somewhere far away, and I was left behind. I struggled with questions like, “If we have a beautiful moment and don't share it with anyone, is it worth anything?” and “Is the memory of an event what makes it matter?” I took deep breaths and pushed away thoughts of the panic medication sitting on my cupboard shelf.

Day 2. “All of Fort Mac is on fire,” S said in awe when he got home from work that night, scrolling through pictures of smoldering wreckage. I began to wonder where I would go if a fire like that swept through Medicine Hat, and what I would bring (the cat is a toss up). I'm not sure whether abstaining from the internet helped or hurt that day. The evening dragged on indefinitely, as I usually play computer games with a friend in the evenings after Q has gone to bed and while S is at work.

Day 3. This was the first day I no longer felt I was suffocated by isolation. I had made some notable exceptions to my screen-free time. I still used it for planning purposes, particularly for arranging house cleanings and playdates. I had to look up Q's soccer schedule and print out a map of the field. I got online to complete the government census, which was surprisingly long and invasive. And I allowed myself to type in Word in lieu of scrawling with a pen and paper. I also used the internet to look up carb counts for my meals. I contemplated how utterly dependent I really was on technology, and wondered if society had the same unease about their dependence on electricity or books. Certain advancements change the way our brain works, I think, and even alters the lens through which we view life. Was I ever not perpetually connected to everyone?

Day 4. I woke up before everyone else and struggled not to reach for my phone. The words of S's cousin stick with me: “You know what's going on on the internet?” she said when I told her I was anxious about my electronic abstinence, “Absolutely nothing.” My mother-in-law made sure to notify me that my father had posted about finding an 11-year-old can of corn. I borrowed a newspaper and educated myself on the fires in Northern Alberta.

Day 5. I reflected that I'd been running around like a chicken with its head cut off all week. I desperately missed those stolen moments of disconnecting (by “connecting,” ironically) from real life and “recharging.” I couldn't think of what to do with my leisure time and had consequently ended up making more to do lists and scurrying around to complete the things written down in my planner, not to mention the mental energy devoted to avoiding screens and determining what would qualify as cheating on my screen-free week. It was not nearly as peaceful as I'd hoped. I finished reading my first book of the year. I didn't like it.

Day 6. Upon attempting to tan my legs so that they are slightly less white than the pure driven snow, I made a startling discovery: they don't change color when exposed to the sun. I idly wondered if I should submit them for research, as I have clearly stumbled upon (quite literally) some anti-aging appendages. I believe that when I am old, sunspotted, and lying in a coffin, my legs will remain the timeless creamy white that they were on the day I was born. I miss the internet.

Day 7. I woke up before 6am and decide that as a Mother's Day present to myself, I'm ending these shenanigans a day early. I've learned some interesting things, been bored out of my mind, and don't really feel closer to enlightenment. I hope to implement some long-term changes, such as not using social media while my daughter is around. I asked Q if she enjoyed screen-free week, and her answer was a resounding, “No!”