Operation F%$k Off Pigeon

Having a little bublette means lots of stay at home time. Especially if she’s on a winning sleeping streak and needs the hang time with her cot.  With all those hours confined to the same four walls it’s easy to go a little crazy with the ol’ cabino fever if we don’t get onto things early. Luckily, I’ve found a solution.

In order to stave off the groundhog lunacies, us mums need to stay occupied. As our living rooms become their own microcosm of the world we need to think globally.

We need an action to keep our senses alert.

We need a cause to fight for.

Mine is Lawn Security.

Outside our lounge room window there’s a lovely little patch of grass. It used to be our veggie patch but didn’t get enough direct sunlight. So James decided to landscape it (i.e. make a patch of grass) for our little bambini.

Things have been going reasonably well as the majority of itty bitty grass seeds have been making their way into fledgling blades of grass. We do however have one looming threat – Mr Pigeon.

I don’t think he’s from this part of town, and I don’t trust him.

This guy thinks he can just waltz into the joint and take whatever he pleases, as if it’s a Sizzler buffet.  No sooner does James lay some extra seeds to make up for lost stock and Mr Pigeon flaps on down to Chinatown for some yum-seed. James even goes out late at night to lay the seed, in the hope that Mr Pigeon won’t know there’s been a new shipment of birdy smack. But he ALWAYS knows.

I don’t even know why I call him Mr Pigeon because that implies he is dignified, or has manners, and he clearly doesn’t.

Initially James was happy to take care of it with some very well thought out tactics and ideas (he did used to be in the army). He hung chains and ropes with Chux ‘don't cross here’ lines and we even set up a clotheshorse barrier – like the infantry. Funnily enough though, pigeons can walk right under frames of metal that are our equivalent of the Westgate Bridge. James’ most inspired contraption was the hanging cat. With jagged mirror eyes and his Styrofoam body hanging menacingly from the chain barriers to simulate a live puss, we thought we had it covered. It wasn't enough. We had no idea what we were dealing with. This is one wiley pigeon.

Now James is a busy man and can’t be abandoning his demands at work to ensure the safety of our grass to be. So I have launched Operation Fuck Off Pigeon. I’m like Tony Abbott with his boat people phobia – we must stop the birdy boat at all costs. Heaven forbid that he take one of those millions of grass seeds that belong to ME. Outside. In nature. Where birds live. I’m renting which says I’m close enough to being able to say that piece of grass is MINE. Not yours.

It’s a multi pronged approach and you have to be uber diligent. So far my most successful tactic seems to be adopting the large bird flapping manouvre through the window. He’s a pigeon, he doesn’t know what I am, but when he sees this intimidating figure rushing to the glass making extended flapping gestures with it’s limbs, he gets the picture. Only enough to fly off the grass and onto the fence. Defiant animal.

I often feel defeated when my distractions (i.e. having a baby) lead to another breech of security. The worst is when he strikes and I’m out of action, feeding bub. My instincts want to fling her off my lap to rush to the window. But I know I can't. I can do nothing but sit there and watch. It breaks my heart. Another teeny lawn grain won’t get it's chance to see daylight, to reach its ultimate potential and become a blade of grass.

The other day I found myself making up stories to James about how I actually feel sorry for Mr Pigeon because he obviously has a compulsive eating disorder and is really unstable. I soon realized this was all just a thinly veiled attempt by my psyche to manage the anxiety over another gobble attack.

Look, you can’t expect to win a war in one day. Although this morning as I braced myself to open the blinds and see his greedy little head bobbling away at the seeds below him, I was shocked. Mr Pigeon was nowhere to be seen. It’s now mid morning and still no sign. I feel elatedly triumphant. But there is a little part of me that hopes he’s ok. Maybe he’s just finally accepted things and gone to get himself some help?

Mr Pigeon or not, I’m just glad that I’m able to keep myself sane and focus on things that matter in our world. 

Mr Pigeon staring me down from his 'safe-house'