The blood-curdling, “DADDY! DADDY!! DADDY!!!” galvanized me into immediate action. I sprinted from the flower bed that I was weeding to the direction the screams were coming from, paying no attention to the fact that I wasn’t “Daddy.” The tone in her voice was the tone that chills every mother’s heart. And Daddy wasn’t home today, anyway.
I reached our pond. Our pond–though the word “pond” calls to mind lovely, idyllic spaces replete with clear, clean water–well, our pond is not much more than a glorified drainage ditch. We never swim in it, because yuck. Yet, it’s the perfect place to while away a summer morning–the kids catch tadpoles, dragonflies, frogs, and the occasional turtle. Occasionally, they’ll take out the kayak and toodle back forth across its shores. That morning, however, as I tore across the yard I didn’t know what I’d find at our pond.
The screams continued. “PUFFIN RAINBOW!! PUFFIN RAAINBOOOOW! PUFFIN RAINBOW!
In the middle of the water my daughter’s beloved parakeet, Puffin Rainbow, fluttered above the dirty, brown water seemingly barely able to stay above water. She was wet and given that her wings were clipped, it was unclear whether she could fly herself to safety. My daughter, nearly incoherent with fear and grief and with hot tears streaking her face, continued to scream.
Without hesitation, I grabbed the nearest stick I could find and waded into the thigh-high brown water, nevermind that I’ve never in the time that we’ve lived at our current address, waded into our “pond.” The bottom squished under my shoe bottoms. Disgusting. Even so, I managed to ease the stick under Puffin Rainbow’s spindly bird legs. She jumped aboard. Quickly but carefully, I brought her back to shore and returned her to my now exuberant daughter.
She was still crying, but the tears were happy, grateful tears. She nuzzled her bird, murmuring into the waterlogged, bright feathers. She looked at me, her eyes bright blue from her tears, and took in the soggy tennis shoes, the wet, heavy denim of my jeans. She threw her arms around me–taking care to not squish the precious parakeet–and squeezed hard.
“Thank you, Mommy. Thank you, Mommy, for saving my birdie.”
My throat closed up just a bit. “You’re welcome, honey. I’m always gonna take care of you.” We walked back to the house, our arms linked around each other.
I’m not a perfect mom, certainly. And some days I feel like I’m messing it all up. But in saving Puffin Rainbow for my daughter that morning, in wading into a questionable pond without hesitation, she saw in some small measure my fierce love for her. And it’s good for the soul–a young or old soul– to realize that someone loves you deeply and fiercely.
