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The Birds and the Bees
by Camerin Courtney
June 8, 2005
I was standing in the bird paraphernalia aisle at my local PETsMART—shopping for a new home for my pet parakeet, Mr. Right—last week when I started sheepishly giggling to myself. Giggling because some of the selections, complete with roofs and Victorian styling and silly little chimneys, were a tad absurd in their detail and hefty price tags. And sheepish because of the reason for this home upgrade for my feathered friend.
I looked around suspiciously at the bustling customers and clerks and wondered if they'd stage a pet-owner intervention if they knew I was buying a new cage solely so I wouldn't have to clean the old one.
In my defense, part of the problem is that Mr. Right doesn't leave his cage. Ever. I've tried leaving his door open in hopes that he'd savor a chance to really spread his wings around my apartment. But my skittish bird just sits there, nervously shaking at the disruption in his normal surroundings. And the few times in the past when I've pretty much scared him out of his home, getting him back inside has been a wild, multiple-person, many-hour ordeal. One that only feeds his fright of all human beings.
So, since he doesn't leave his cage, it's tough to clean it well. And after three years in that cage, well, some of the corners just aren't pretty. Hence, the need for a new home. I figured the 20 bucks I'd have to plunk down for this purchase would be well worth the trauma I'd spare both me and Mr. Right if I tried to give it the thorough cleaning it needed.
I eventually found a lovely cage in the same color scheme as Mr. Right's old abode, with a little more room even. And then, probably out of mother-guilt, I also bought him a swing, a mirror, and a weird toy-thing that hangs from his "ceiling." The total price tag was about twice what I'd figured, but I was undeterred.
As the cashier was ringing me up, I wondered if she knew the reason for my purchase, if she'd refuse me my items and threaten to call the DFFS (the Department of Feathered Friend Services) on me.
And then as I was walking my purchases out to my car a thought flitted through my brain: What kind of mom would I possibly be someday if I can't even keep my bird's cage clean. It's not like someday if, Lord willing, I become a mom and my little one has an exceedingly messy diaper (as I've heard they're prone to do) I can just change him in for a new kid. Or when he's older, if his room gets too messy, I can't just torch it and start over.
This isn't the first time such a thought has entered my brain. I also experience mother doubt when I snarf a cheese-stick breakfast (because it's the closest thing to breakfast food I have in my home at the time) in one hand while doing my hair with the other, and then I eventually leave my apartment late, with my hairdryer and cheese-stick wrapper in the middle of my hallway, and a wet spot on my blouse because I realized I had a bit of schmeg on it on my way out the door and desperately tried to fix it with the spit and water. I trip out the door thinking, How could I ever be responsible for another human being?
Then, as if the whole universe was conspiring against me, shortly after my PETsMART moment of shame, I saw a Today show segment that added a bit of panic to my shame. (A winning combination, if there ever was one.) Katie Couric interviewed two authors of a new book on female infertility and one talked candidly about the myth of eternal motherhood.
"Many women see movie stars having babies well into their 40s and 50s, and they think they have all the time in the world," one of the authors said. "But the reality is, a woman's fertility drastically decreases after 35." As one who's a month shy of a 30something birthday, I almost dropped my cheese stick in dismay.
On my way to work that morning, I had a nice little chat with God about this great news, that included the following tirade: "Really, God? I try my best to hold out for your best for me in a marriage partner, and all I get is a decreasing likelihood of motherhood? I know I was just fearing what kind of mother I might be, but I'd still like a shot at it someday. It's not like I'm just selfishly putting it off, as those authors suggested. I just haven't yet been in a place—in your timeline of these things—to even give it a try yet. Please tell me I'm not missing my shot. I know you can do anything, but …."
My motherhood-longings got temporarily lost in the day's challenges at work. And that night was the Big Move—old cage to new. I tried to coax Mr. Right from his current front door to his great, new non-smelly home, but he was having no part of it. I'd positioned his open front door right in front of the open door of the new place, so all he had to do was hop from threshold to threshold. But no. I told him all about the great advantages of the new place, pointing them out for his little beady eyes to behold. Not buying it. I even tapped menacingly on the other side of his current cage, trying to scare him into the new place. He just flapped around like crazy, never even close to entering the new place.
Finally, a brainstorm. I moved his bird-buddy (a furry blue stuffed animal-type thing he cozies up to at night) to the new place and I put his water dish just inside the front door of his new home, and waited. Hours later, coaxed by thirst and some of my annoying cage tapping, he finally did it. As he flapped nervously around his new cage then settled in next to his bird buddy, I congratulated myself on my clever move.
And as I happily walked his old cage out to the dumpster, I realized afresh that often necessity is the mother of invention. And while I know coaxing my bird into his new cage is nowhere near the endless challenges (and rewards) of parenting, I think some of the underlying principles are the same: God usually grants us the skills for something right when we need them (rarely even two minutes before), and pretty much everyone is making it up as they go along. "Experts" and complete readiness for a new adventure are rare. There's usually just a willingness to take that first step, and abundant doses of God's guidance and grace.
As for the baby lust? As I was lying in bed that night chatting with God for a few minutes before clicking off my light, I revisited the topic with him. I thought of my married friends and family members of all ages who have wrestled with infertility, and realized there are no guarantees in life. I thought of the amazing adoption stories I've witnessed—even in my own family—and marveled again at the sometimes-creative way God knits families together, and crafts beauty from the ashes of our disappointment and pain (Isaiah 61:3).
And I realized that this was another one of those moments when I'd have to choose to trust in God's timing and higher ways. As well as in his promises, not necessarily for kids of my own, but for a hopeful future and his constant presence. And in choosing to allow those things to be enough. While it would be so much easier to trust in the assurance of motherhood somewhere down the road, that's not what we're offered. But what we are offered is bigger and harder and surer—not necessarily God's specific provision, but God himself. "I trust you God," I breathed aloud into the silence of my bedroom, "and please help my distrust."
And with that Mr. Right and I drifted off to sleep, he in his brand-spanking new cage, and me at home in my spotty hope and God's sure presence.
Camerin welcomes your feedback and brainstorms at: SinglesNewsletter@ChristianityToday.com
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