For the birds

New house rules: if you have a place to sleep, you sleep in it.

Last night, the usual suspects paraded through my sleep. S came and got me to cuddle with him. This was around midnight. Then, at 1:15, the most horrible sound: like animals pacing? Burglars burgling? Serial killers sharpening axes? I was awakened, and tiptoed out to the hallway. Not to worry, though, because apparently, if a serial killer makes the slightest sound, S will instantaneously wake, rise, and greet him in the hallway with his blankie as his only defense.

S was already in the hall when I got there. We looked around, dumbly, wondering what had brought us here. Suddenly, one of our brown bellied barn swallows ( although some googling of images suggests we might have the slightly rarer Northern Rough Wing variety. But, honestly, what right minded northerner would roost here? Wait a minute...) rose from behind the chair, flapping, flopping, floundering into the wall, the ceiling, the light fixture, the window, drunken. S/he was the most recent BBBSwallow of the week. We have had either the same uncoordinated visitor, or the entire extended family over the past months.

Finally, he ran out of gas and collapsed in a heap of Legos. (not the most comfortable place to collapse, I think) I picked him up, and went downstairs to release him out into the sweltering night. As I opened the front door, Cat came running from across the street. Of course Cat makes it impossible to set Bird free.

I learned this little nugget LAST BBBSwallow season. One of the babies fell through the chimney (which is where their nest is) and into the house. Wrongly, I assumed he could fly. I cradled him, cooed over him, and delicately took him outside to set him free. I gently tossed my palm skyward, and instead of launching into the peculiar, angular flight of the swallow, he kinda flopped a little. Cat swooped out of nowhere, and Baby Bird was No More.

Despite the late/early hour, I did not want Bird to die. I let Cat in the house, closed the door, went back outside and tossed my palm gently skyward. BBBSwallow launched and rose into the black night like a bat. I turned, went inside, tracked down Cat, picked him up and then put him out into the inky night.

I returned upstairs to wash my hands of avian flu and cat scratch fever and S was waiting for me. He could not go back to sleep after the BBBSwallow incident, and required cuddles. I cuddled, cradled, and cooed him back to sleep. I returned to my own bed, sweet bed, and fell asleep again.

At 4:30, S was back. Wanting to play Wii. 4:30 is NOT an appropriate time to play Wii. Or to be in my room. Or to be conscious in any way. I went BACK to his bed, to soothe and cuddle, though I accidentally nearly crushed Clooney. Somehow Clooney had already been delivered to S's bed. I know S had to have crept in and dognapped him from his cushion, because Clooney is too small to jump up onto S's bed. So, there we were, a non-sleeping threesome. The sky's first lights were slicing into the room, and I knew I was doomed: there really is a limit to how many times I can ask my body to go to sleep in one night.

Eventually, E could be heard karate fighting his invisible demons, and so S went off to find his brother, a companion in Wii.

I toddled off one last time to bed, this time in the well lit hall. I left birds and boys and dogs behind me, and hunkered down under the nice cool covers of my own bed.

And fell asleep one last time for the night.