Motherhood of Squirrels.

So, I'm a mom. Of one. Yes, on purpose (well, the One part, anyway). I love my daughter, I love being a mother, but I gotta tell ya: It hasn't been easy. I was terrified to become a mom, scared shitless that if I was left in charge of a small human being I'd probably wreck it, like I did my first car, or lose it like so many cell phones and keys. It's a learn-as-you go task, this Motherhood thing, and that in itself took me a while to figure out. But we soldier on. Just in case, along with her college fund, I've squirreled away a "therapy fund" for her as well. Because everything, as we all well know, will be my fault. Right?

Along with mothering my human child, I've raised several dogs, evil cats, rabbits, fish and hermit crabs. I've rescued wild birds.

And now I have squirrels. (Yay!)

After watching several of the Fingered Rodentates visit our oak trees every fall, I decided I wanted one of my very own. So I got a feeder and had The Husband attach it with large screws to our big messy pine tree in the back yard, filled it with peanuts and sat back to watch. It didn't take long for a bushy-tailed visitor to figure out this was a gold mine and take up residence in the tree. She was quick, cute and oh, so very bossy. Being territorial, she would promptly yell at any other squirrel who tried to belly up to the buffet. The dogs, cats and people in our yard are berated regularly for existing. Sometimes she will deign to grace us with her presence, resting comfortably on top of the feeder box, stretched out, little prehensile feet hanging off the corners. And every time she's there, you're guaranteed to see me standing entranced, quivering and giggling and wanting to love it and hug it and squeeze it and call it George. (But we named her Peach, instead). We watched as she, being compulsively squirrelish, stashed everything she could find in various caches around the yard. When I, in a rare show of industry, tried to rake up the leaves and pine needles last Autumn, she promptly ran to the branch above my head and held out her little paw, chittering anxiously as I turned over stashed acorns, peanuts and sunflower seeds. If I could have super slow-mo'd the audio I'm pretty sure it was an action-movie "NOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooo!!!!!!" I apologized, stopped raking and poured a drink. Yard work is overrated anyway, right?

This Spring, Ms. Peach showed up at the feeder with teeny faucets on her belly. Been whorin' around, had Peach. Oh, Rapture! To think there might be baby squirrels! Teensy nekkid blind baby squirrels nesting somewhere above my head! Oh!

Having watched more than my fair share of Nature episodes, I know how perilous it is to be a baby in the wild. Watching her, that knowledge was confirmed. Peach has been an exemplary example of the Trials of Motherhood. I am a mother. Everything Peach has been through, I have shared in empathy.

Nursing babies is no picnic. Peach would regularly sit on the feeder, belly exposed, as if too cool off the radioactive nipples. Then she would frantically cram as much food as she could down her pie-hole. Been there, done that.
Kids eat. Kids eat a piggin' lot. She was in perpetual motion, gathering treats I left on the feeder, digging up her remaining autumnal stashes, back and forth, up and down, tightrope running across the power lines precariously with her mouth full. I would sigh and wave to her as I walked to my car, again, to go to Costco or Smith's or Big Lots or Shopko or Harmon's. Again.
Late one night last week as I sat watching something brainless on the boob-tube refusing to go to bed because going to bed means I have to wake up to another chore/errand/mess-filled day, I was alerted to Peach's signature chitter. But not her usual "Get-outta-my-sight" ranting, but a more distressed lament. Arming myself with a flashlight, I went to the back yard to see if I could find out what she was upset about, stepping gingerly in case my worst fear of fallen babies had come true. My search was fruitless, I have no idea what she was so upset about and my presence only seemed to fuel her fire. So I went back in, had another glass of wine to calm down, and listened to her yell for another hour. I can only imagine that one of her precious brood had possibly woken her in the middle of a good dream, had wet the bed, had a nightmare, needed a drink of water, wanted to write their Santa list, something. Motherhood, by definition, means very little sleep.

I've watched her for the past month run frazzled up and down that tree. No sign of the babies, the venerable pine kept them hidden. Until today.

The Girl had a sleepover at my parents' last night, and I almost slept in. But my Mom alarm went off at 7:30, so I was up. Feeling rebellious at not having to make anyone breakfast, I went out to read the paper at the patio table. And saw a squirrel at the feeder. A teeny one. He was unsure, clumsy, and hyperactive. Biting everything to see what was food and what was not. I froze, thinking I should grab the camera, knowing that if I did he'd probably disappear. He was soon joined by a teeny sibling, also clumsy and determined. Then a third. Three babies! Aw. They're striking out on their own now, nibbling sunflower seeds and trying to figure out how to open a peanut. One very brashly tried to carry the strawberry top I'd put out up to another branch. He made it, but only barely. He sat proudly, stuffing his gob and pushing away his little sister.
And the whole time, Peach was a wreck. She ran to the edges of her turf, chittering and swinging and yelling, looking like she would remove the face from anyone who got too close, looking like she really really needed a drink, chiding her babies when they explored too far. Finally, she got them back to the nest for a nap and sat on the feeder, gratefully nibbling the apple core I provided.

The Girl finished second grade this week. Now there's talk of her walking to school with friends, sans parents, next year. She wants a phone. She wants to go to overnight camp this summer. I think there's a boy she likes at school and another one down the block.

Sigh.

*lifting my martini* Here's to Motherhood, Peach.