The other night I had a dream that I was being attacked by a crow.
The crow was a known serial killer.
And now it was after me.
Fortunately I utilized my kung fu hand training (because what good kung fu requires you to leave your chair?) and caught the crow with my bare hands. I won’t go into the details of the various ways I tried to subdue this Rasputin crow that wouldn’t die. Members of P.E.T.A. might be reading. One method involved my moving car and the right front tire, but I’m revealing too much!
Anyhow, once the bird was finally dispatched, all its friends and relatives in the tri-state area came after me for revenge, all Hitchcock-like, OF COURSE!
At that point there was nothing for it but to scare myself awake. I do appreciate when that happens, actually. However, once I’m awake in the middle of the night I inevitably discover that I need to go to the bathroom and that, indeed, I will not be able to fall back asleep until I do. So I spent a quarter of an hour lying there trying to psych myself into getting out of the relative safety of my blankets (any child will tell you that you’re safe in your bed so long as you’re under your blankets–even from serial killer birds) and walk the several feet to the bathroom without a murder of crows (that is, appropriately, what they are called) flocking out from under my bed.
Once inside the bathroom, I was concerned there would be a feathered fiend lurking behind the lou. Fortunately there was not. I felt confident returning to bed, but hopped in quickly, nonetheless. If I lingered too long next to the bed, my ankles could still get pecked. (Who says nightmares are only for children?)
So after spending another quarter of an hour deciding how I would be relieved from my plight with the birds–which involved an ambulance, a fire truck, and whole squadrons of police–I managed to fall back asleep, confident that my crow problem was no more.
Until I woke up.
~The Lazy Mom~
Is this just poetic justice ala Edgar Allan? I don’t know. But I’m not what you would call a “morning person.” As most of the world knows, children typically are morning people. That’s okay in my house, however, as my children are old enough to entertain themselves for an hour, or two, or three, or however long it takes Mommy to haul her lazy carcass out of bed. The kids totally are cool with that, and they always greet their mother happily when she does eventually emerge. Please note that the point here is that the kids do not come bother me while I’m sleeping. Like. Ever. In fact, one morning I thought I heard the youngest one crying and the oldest one say something about blood, but I couldn’t be sure. I had my ear plugs in to tune them out.
At this point you’re either shaking your head and tisking or wringing your hands in jealousy. Totally your call.
So, this particular morning, the kids broke form. They entered my room. They entered my room with a stuffed animal. They entered my room with a stuffed animal that I hadn’t seen nor heard of in months. An animal I forgot we even had. An animal I don’t know WHY we even had. And that animal was placed ON my face. What is that animal? You guessed it. A BLOODY CROW!!!!
“Look, Mommy! Birdy!” my youngest said delightedly.
“What the HELL?! Get that horrible thing off me!” I screamed as I slammed it into the nearest wall–is what I wanted to do.
Instead, because I am actually a decent mom despite all evidence to the contrary, I said, “Yes, Sweetie. It’s a crow,” and I stroked its head gently while picturing myself wringing its tiny neck.
That was freaky enough, but all day long with that d*mn bird, my daughter kept saying, “Look, Mom, I made it a nest.” Later: “Look, Mom, I put feathers in its nest.” We have a bag of fake feathers. They were probably just feathers from the crow’s previous victims. “Look, Mom, the crow is in your shirt now.” That’s right. She even went so far as to shove that sum’bitch Right. Up. My Shirt!
As in my dream, that bird just wouldn’t die.
And wait. It does get even better.
In the afternoon, when I was attempting to do a lesson with my girls, one looked outside, and said, “Look, Mom, a crow!” Yep, there was an actual live crow sitting on the roof of our garage. As I looked, it slooooowly turned its head and glared right at me before emitting a loud, angry “caw.”
Okay, relax. This is not at Stephen King novel. The crow did not actually turn and look at me, slowly or otherwise. Nor did it caw. If it had I probably would have been calling the exorcist, or at least the aforementioned fire truck, ambulance, and police squadrons. All the thing really did was interrupt my lesson as the girls rushed to the window. Then it was gone.
But not without giving me the willies.
And so ends my crow story.
Sleep well tonight, Kiddies!