Whose Nest Matters Most?

At my house this week, we're readying ourselves for some sprucing-up projects -- a new patio, exterior paint, new outdoor lighting -- and it's making me feel very...settled.  We've lived for 5 years in this comfortable and sweet house,  and having a brightening-up done feels like a promise to the house that we've loved it.  Like a makeover + pedicure + massage all rolled into a gift package for the home that's cared for us so well, welcoming babies and rowdy toddlers into its heart.  It's nothing drastic, but we're excited about it.  Also exciting is the fact that almost none of the work will be done by us, personally.  Hooray for hired contractors!

There's one thing that's been holding me back from complete enthusiasm, though. 

Last week, while staring out into the bright afternoon of our neighborhood, I kept seeing two birds coming and going from my front porch.  I peeked out several times to see what they were up to, and saw nothing that looked like it would inspire a couple of wrens to be so heavily interested in the front door.  The shiny windows, yes...but...they hadn't banged into the window as has happened before, and besides that, their actions seemed purposeful.  Not accidental. 

Later that night, I pointed them out to Justin.  Little brown creatures, quick and silent, darting towards our front door and back again.  Resting under our eaves, perching on the downspout between visits.  Still, on the porch, there was nothing but a few wasp-huts and cobwebs. 

The next morning, the couple was still at it.  I looked again, and there, on our porch light, was the beginning of a nest.  Piled and stuffed were twigs and grasses, weeds and leaves.  I was overjoyed!  A sweet little bird's nest!  It would probably soon have eggs in it and then...baby birds! 

More days passed and I saw less coming and going, now only by one of the birds.  It sat on the nest for hours at a time, only flying away if we opened the front door or when toddler-hands banged on the window.  I was desperate to see inside the nest, but it was too high above my head to get a good view.  Camera in hand, I lifted my arm as high as I could reach, and took some quick photos.  An egg-spy, I was. 

Four tiny eggs, pale and blue, rested silently in the nest.  Those eggs made me happier than any homeowner should be about an invading animal's breeding habits.  But they're so cute!  So small!  And the birds chose our house, our porch light, from which to shelter and hatch their family!

I happily showed the pictures to the girls, and to Justin, and smiled for hours afterward.

That night, I lay in bed, thinking about the house and the projects we're planning.  The contractor was coming in the morning to get information from us and set up our plans, and I had questions.  Ideas.  Hopes.  But then I remembered the bird's nest, the four tiny eggs...and I panicked! 

What happens when the house-painters want to paint right there?!  What happens when they remove the light fixture to paint around it?  What happens when the mama bird comes back and she knows her eggs have been disturbed?  Will she abandon them?  Or worse, what happens if she can't find them?!  She'll be fluttering around -- frantic! -- searching for her unborn babies, and not knowing where they are!  Her little birdy nostrils will be filled with the scent of house paint and she'll be confused, disoriented, chirping her motherly anxiety for all the neighborhood to hear!  She'll worry that her eggs have been crushed, stolen, lost.  She'll worry that her babies have hatched, only to find a cold and mother-less world around them.  She'll worry that they'll be killed by a predatory creature, and she'll soar in circles, wracked with grief for the family she didn't get to have.

I couldn't sleep that night.  Nightmares of crying babies or cheeping birds kept me awake, I couldn't tell which. 

The contractor came in the morning.  We walked around the whole house while I pointed out areas of concern and expectations.  I held my bird's-nest-fears close to my chest, hoping he would notice the nest and approach the topic himself, but he didn't.  It fell to me.  The crazy bird-loving homeowner.  The irrational, hormonal lady of the house. 

I thought about not saying a word.  After all, this is our house.  This work needs to be done, and it can't revolve around a small, worthless bird and its messy, temporary nest. 

But, you know me, right?  I pointed out the nest.  I laughed about the stupidity of my request.  I explained about the eggs.  (The contractor smiled and nodded.)

We'll see what happens.  The painting can't begin for a few more weeks, due to the contractor's other business, and I'm hoping -- hoping -- the eggs have hatched by then.  The baby birds have ventured away from the nest by then. 

Otherwise, you might drive by my house and see a relocated bird's nest and light fixture, attached to a tree in my front yard, shaded by an umbrella of some sort.  I'm just not sure what that particular line item will look like on a contractor's receipt.