Dead Bird in the Fridge
You think I'm talking about our dinner, aren't you? Chicken, maybe turkey?
I'm not talking about dinner. There's a dead bird in my fridge, in a plastic box, right next to the clotted cream. It's Theo's Prize Possession and - after we tried and failed to identify it - a facebook call for help has it identified as a juvenile bluetit. We found it at the doorstep of a neighbouring house, unharmed if rather dead, and happened to have a plastic container on us precisely for the collection of dead things, although of course our highest hopes hadn't made it past the one-inch mark of a snail or bumble bee perhaps.
At school, Theo is studying "Mini Beasts" this term. I think the teacher had insects in mind but when I needed my boy to happily come along to collect Tara from her friend's house, I thought it a good idea to grab a box and tempt him with access to their larger garden - ours had yielded nothing more exciting than ants and snails - and so we had a box at the ready when Theo stopped in his tracks to shout about a dead bird. He really has tremendous enthusiasm for creatures, large and small, so we take the baby bird with us. How the teachers will love us for bringing such a fantastic specimen to school, for everybody to take a very close look at!
The next morning, and you can find us in the queue outside Theo's classroom, pressing forward to hand the box - that by now also contains a snail without its shell (dead) and a very small spider (dead) - to Mrs. M. who is exactly as delighted as I thought she would be. "Here, Mr. A., you are teaching this morning!" she says to the student teacher who also looks impressed and delighted with such unanticipated and rich study opportunity. Theo has disappeared to the back of the queue, radiating a mix of 'proud', 'shy' and 'modestly humble'.
It's been amusing seeing the teachers' reactions but suddenly I worry that the bird's reception in class might not do either the bird nor my boy's quiet and humble pride any justice. As soon as the children have disappeared around the corner at the ring of the bell, I step up to him. Like a very stern elderly dear, I say, "Now, young man!" (Exactly what I said, how very embarassing.) "Theo is extremely proud of his find. Could you please make sure that the bird gets an adequate reception in class?"
I've got to be embodying just the kind of parent every teacher loves to deal with, huffing and puffing protectively over their precocious offspring. I'm not normally like this, but today the possibility of seeing his enthusiasm squashed and the vision of him coming home deflated, saying, 'nobody was interested and they thought it was disgusting' - suddenly that possibility is an anxious knot in my tummy that I can't stomach.
Mr A. agrees that the bird's reception should be adequate.
School's out for the weekend, and Leo agrees the bluetit's reception was adequate. But over the weekend we spend a lot of time discussing what might happen to it next. He is hoping to bring it home for a burial in the back of the garden. I try to guide his hopes a bit in preparation what will come, so I stir him in the direction of the 'school' garden. Would he be able to mark the little grave, he wonders. Could he posibly make a cross or a stone or another marker?
Come Monday morning, I check with Mr A.: How did the bird fare in class, I want to know, and what have you done with it?
"It was a huge success, actually! It toured three classes in the end. We've only just thrown it in the bin."
The first bit of information was great. The second bit is not fit for my boy's loving hopes and dreams.
"Thrown it in the bin?! By this you surely mean you have laid it to rest in a grave at the bottom of the school garden? Which is how you will put it when Theo asks?!"
Of course, of course, he agrees. And I'm glad I didn't accidentally address him with a stern 'now, young man!' again.
And this is how the bird is laid to rest.
A few months later, at the end of the school year, the episode comes back to us in the form of a comment on his end-of-year report: "Theo has produced great home learning which has been shared and enjoyed by children and teaching staff. Theo - thank you for bringing in different artefacts to help with our learning over the year. We especially liked the dead bird and the snail without its shell!"
I may have just laughed so much I cried.
No blog post would be complete without a picture of our darling little baby who is happily sat on the floor throughout or investigation. She still occasionally falls backwards, so still sits surrounded by cushions, exploring Santa's hat or Hoopy Loopy's bottom.
I'm not talking about dinner. There's a dead bird in my fridge, in a plastic box, right next to the clotted cream. It's Theo's Prize Possession and - after we tried and failed to identify it - a facebook call for help has it identified as a juvenile bluetit. We found it at the doorstep of a neighbouring house, unharmed if rather dead, and happened to have a plastic container on us precisely for the collection of dead things, although of course our highest hopes hadn't made it past the one-inch mark of a snail or bumble bee perhaps.
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| Spy the bird in the messy fridge |
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| Juvenile Bluetit |
It's been amusing seeing the teachers' reactions but suddenly I worry that the bird's reception in class might not do either the bird nor my boy's quiet and humble pride any justice. As soon as the children have disappeared around the corner at the ring of the bell, I step up to him. Like a very stern elderly dear, I say, "Now, young man!" (Exactly what I said, how very embarassing.) "Theo is extremely proud of his find. Could you please make sure that the bird gets an adequate reception in class?"
I've got to be embodying just the kind of parent every teacher loves to deal with, huffing and puffing protectively over their precocious offspring. I'm not normally like this, but today the possibility of seeing his enthusiasm squashed and the vision of him coming home deflated, saying, 'nobody was interested and they thought it was disgusting' - suddenly that possibility is an anxious knot in my tummy that I can't stomach.
Mr A. agrees that the bird's reception should be adequate.
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| Such ornotological enthusiasm! |
School's out for the weekend, and Leo agrees the bluetit's reception was adequate. But over the weekend we spend a lot of time discussing what might happen to it next. He is hoping to bring it home for a burial in the back of the garden. I try to guide his hopes a bit in preparation what will come, so I stir him in the direction of the 'school' garden. Would he be able to mark the little grave, he wonders. Could he posibly make a cross or a stone or another marker?
Come Monday morning, I check with Mr A.: How did the bird fare in class, I want to know, and what have you done with it?
"It was a huge success, actually! It toured three classes in the end. We've only just thrown it in the bin."
The first bit of information was great. The second bit is not fit for my boy's loving hopes and dreams.
"Thrown it in the bin?! By this you surely mean you have laid it to rest in a grave at the bottom of the school garden? Which is how you will put it when Theo asks?!"
Of course, of course, he agrees. And I'm glad I didn't accidentally address him with a stern 'now, young man!' again.
And this is how the bird is laid to rest.
A few months later, at the end of the school year, the episode comes back to us in the form of a comment on his end-of-year report: "Theo has produced great home learning which has been shared and enjoyed by children and teaching staff. Theo - thank you for bringing in different artefacts to help with our learning over the year. We especially liked the dead bird and the snail without its shell!"
I may have just laughed so much I cried.
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| Just as happy with a stuffed elephant bottom |
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