Who Am I To Mess With Mother Nature?

You probably saw my recent Facebook posts about my Baby Sparrow Saga. I'll tell you what; I never knew I could get so emotional over a bunch of birds. Here's how it went down:

Early in the spring a couple of sparrows built a nest on a vent above my basement patio door, inside the screened-in area underneath my deck. There had been an identical nest in the identical spot last year, so I wasn't surprised to see them return, and I didn't think anything of it. Aside from sending the birds flying every time I stepped out of my office for a smoke, my relationship with the birds was pretty typical and uneventful.

Until Monday.

On Monday morning I gradually realized that something outside the patio door (which is in my office) was making a heck of a racket. I looked outside and saw the mama and daddy birds hopping and darting around, cheeping like mad, obviously in distress. I got up and took a closer look - only to find their nest lying on the concrete patio. It had fallen off the vent above the door. After grabbing some gloves and a stool, I went out and took a closer look. The nest had at least one living baby in it, and two others had fallen out either on the way down or upon impact, and were lying on the concrete. These baby birds can't have been more than a couple days old. Completely devastated, I gently picked the babies up, placed them back in the nest, and hurriedly put the nest up on the header board of the deck. Not where the nest was before, as there was no way it could go there again, but I hoped it would be good enough. I quickly grabbed my stool and went back inside. And then I watched. And hoped the mama and daddy birds would come back.

And they did. Pretty much as soon as I went inside, they did come back, and I caught a glimpse of mama in the nest, inspecting her babies. Whew - disaster averted. Or so I thought.

Late yesterday morning I looked out my patio door to see if the nest was still there. It was. I then looked to see if mama and daddy were still hanging around. They were. Then I spied something lying on the concrete patio just outside the screen porch. It was a gray shape that looked suspiciously like the babies I had returned to their nest just the day before. With a knot of dread in my stomach, I grabbed my gloves and went outside. Sure enough, it was the corpse of a baby sparrow. Two others lay next to it. I gathered them up and tossed them in the woods -- it was really hot, and they stank. I was so sad, but not overly surprised...I thought they might have been injured in their original fall and died in the nest - only to be heaved out by their parents overnight. I checked the nest from above through a crack on the deck floor and saw two more babies - one obviously alive, one obviously dead. I thought I might see the dead one on the concrete this morning when I got up.

This morning I set my own babies down to their breakfast and stepped out onto the deck for a smoke. I looked over the railing - and sure as shit, there was a baby lying on the concrete. I about died when the damn thing moved. I immediately ran downstairs, brought the stool and the gloves back out, and returned the live baby to its nest. I found the corpse of the dead baby and tossed it. 

And since then, all day long, I have been extremely concerned about the welfare of the one surviving baby. I don't know how the damn thing has survived two ten-foot falls, but it's still breathing every time I check on it. I even saw mama sitting in the nest and apparently feeding her baby. The last time I looked in on it, it was hanging half out of the nest - still breathing, and I once again put it back in. Perhaps another attempt - this one failed - by mama to heave the baby over the side again? Quite frankly, I don't think it's looking too good for my little buddy. I'm pretty sure he'll be dead by morning, and probably lying on the concrete for the third damn time.

I kind of feel like this is Human vs. Bird. I suppose there's a reason the mama bird tosses her babies out of the nest, and I'm probably interfering and meddling by continuing to pick them up and put them back in. But I'll tell you what - the poor little thing is still alive, and I'm all for giving it a chance to live. I know that humans and birds are nothing alike, and I understand the concepts "survival of the fittest" and "the circle of life." But I am a mother, and my maternal instinct kicked into overdrive as soon as I saw the nest on the ground on Monday. I just had to try and save these poor defenseless brand-new baby birds. I guess I'll never understand why small-brained animals behave the way they do, or why their instincts tell them to do certain things. Maybe the real problem here is that I have to see it because it's right outside my fricking door. If the nest wasn't attached to my house, this wouldn't be a problem.

Maybe it's time to bird-proof the old screen porch?

One Week and Six Pounds Down!

I have had more than my fair share of misfortune in the last 12 months. A shitty husband (with apologies, respect, and love to any of his family members that may be reading this), separation, reduced time with my kids, two failed short sales and resulting impending foreclosure, IRS troubles, divorce, bankruptcy...I've been through the wringer, to put it mildly. Truth be told, I've spent much of the last year feeling like a victim, like I just didn't have all that much to feel good about...including (and especially) myself. It has most definitely been a very tough year.

A little more than a week ago, I had an epiphany. There is something I can do, over which I have complete control, that would help me to finally feel better about myself. And that something is losing weight. This is my opportunity to stop feeling sorry for myself, and instead start feeling proud of myself. Confident. Comfortable in my own skin. Whoa - there's a concept.

Trouble is, losing weight is damn hard. And it's a damn lot of work. It's easy to talk yourself out of doing that work in favor of taking the easy way and pretending to not care what you look like. But I've discovered that it's impossible to not care. You do, even if you think you don't. I decided I'm tired of wearing oversized t-shirts to hide my body. I want to feel comfortable in whatever I'm wearing, whether it be a dress or a bathing suit.

One thing I've learned about myself, and I suspect this might be true of Americans in general, is that my brain and my body are wired completely differently. My body craves the good stuff like veggies and lean proteins. That's what my body wants and needs to function. My brain, however, doesn't see it that way. My brain wants instant gratification in the form of processed sugars, fats, starches and salts. That shit tastes so much better than the good stuff. So my brain has been forcing my poor body to take in this nutritionless but totally tasty crap and somehow make it work. This results in the "3:00 crash," too much caffeine, sleepless nights, and the inability to keep up with the kids. 

So after my epiphany, I decided to start making some changes, pronto. To start controlling what goes into my body and see what results I get. I've done this several times before, so I know how it works - but this time I have the best of all reasons: to start taking care of myself and renew my pride in myself. First off the menu: Mountain Dew, crackers and chips, cheese, and bread. Back on the menu: veggies, fruit, and water. Oh - and working out regularly has become a must. MyPlate on LiveStrong.com has been an indispensable tool for tracking what I eat and the progress I'm making.

And, well, the results after the first week are stunning. Six pounds lost in a single week. I'm starting to see white stretch marks (the GOOD stretch marks) in areas that have already substantially shrunk. I can already wear pants that just two weeks ago I couldn't even button. I proudly wore a tank top in public yesterday. I haven't experienced a 3:00 crash yet. I've been sleeping better. All great things, and all excellent motivators. Signs that all the work and willpower is paying off.

I'm not deluding myself - I know that one successful week doesn't make for an easy journey. But I'll tell you what - it just has to be easier than what I've been through in the last 12 months - and will yield much more positive results. I mean, there is nothing better than renewed self-confidence...that's what will give me the power to rise above the negativity. I cannot wait.

Check this shit out...

The New Old Me.

Well, it's official. As of 9:00 last Friday morning, my marriage is over. At the risk of seeming macabre, I like to say this:

R.I.P. Jennifer DeVries Caron (4/15/06-4/22/11)

I've bid farewell to Jennifer Caron, and have welcomed Jennifer Rae DeVries back. It feels really good to have my old name - my real name - back.

It's crazy to think that five years has come and gone. It's crazy to think that I'm divorced, and now a single mother. But I'll tell you what - even though I didn't plan it this way, I've always believed that things happen for a reason. In this case, the reason is the two beautiful children sleeping soundly upstairs. I know that everything in my life had to happen exactly the way it did, because any deviation from the path I took would mean I wouldn't have my kids. Clearly my marriage wasn't meant to last -- but when I look at my little man and my baby girl, I find it very difficult to be bitter. Instead I'm grateful. Optimistic. Confident. Feeling more and more like my old self every day. And I'm feeling deep in my bones that there's something bigger and better waiting for me just over the horizon. Whatever that may end up being, I'm so glad I'll be able to share it with my kids.

These two goofballs are the reason for everything I do.

Price Phillip, age 3-1/2

Kendall Rae, age 14 mos

Tattoos Really Do Tell A Story.

As many of you have heard or seen, in November I finally got myself inked.  I've always wanted to get a tattoo, and first started seriously considering the idea at the age of 16.  Of course, at that time I was too young to get it done myself, and besides...I knew I wanted one, but I didn't know what I wanted or where I wanted it.

A real conundrum, to be sure.  It took me 18 years to finally figure it out.  The day after Thanksgiving my KC friend Sarah took me to a tattoo studio near her house - Exile Tattoo - and the wonderful Steven Campbell worked his magic on my skin.

Prior to heading to Kansas City for Thanksgiving, I spent weeks honing my designs.  I knew that one of the tats would have to be my goose.  Story on that coming up.  The other was to be my mommy tat, and that one took a bit of time and research to decide on.  My mommy tat needed to be personal and symbolic, yet unique.  I wanted a piece of artwork that depicted strength (the Celtic knot), motherhood (the heart shape of this particular Celtic knot), and how important my kids are to me (their names and birthdates, and the purple/white in the knot for their birthstone colors).  I had all the separate elements, and Steven did a fantastic job of putting them all together for me. I asked that the tat be placed on my upper left arm, close to my heart.  Here's the end result (remember that this pic was taken right after the tat was finished, so it's a bit bloody and swollen):

Maybe a bit extreme for a very first tattoo, but it's exactly what I wanted. And it didn't even hurt that badly.  When Steve was done, I felt like I had just gotten the world's biggest flu shot in my left arm.

Next up, the goose.  This one would turn out to be my most deeply personal and inspirational piece of body art -- more so than I'd even anticipated.  See, I consider the goose to be my "totem" - my animal spirit guide, such as was believed by Native American cultures.  The goose is a symbol of loyalty, bravery, and determination. The goose is fiercely protective of its young. The goose never leaves one of it own behind.  Nowhere in the animal kingdom is there an animal that better describes and represents my own personality.

My father nicknamed me "Goofy Goose" as a very young child, and called me that for many, many years.  In college, I carried on the name by introducing myself as "Goose."  That nickname really stuck; there are many cherished friends who still call me that, to this day.  The goose is a part of my soul; I felt it appropriate to honor that by inscribing it on my body.

I chose a silhouette of a flying snow goose, and decided to place it on my inner right forearm and color it solid black.  There it would be easily visible, and a constant reminder that it is OK to move forward with my life, putting myself and my children first.  The goose would be my promise to myself that I will never again allow anybody to take advantage of me, treat me poorly, or destroy my self esteem.

And that is a promise I have taken very seriously.  It's amazing how a simple visual reminder like a tattoo can change my perspective.  In the six or seven weeks since I got this tattoo, I have shed many anxieties, started rebuilding my self-confidence, and even exorcised an old demon I'd been carrying around for several years.  I feel more like myself than I have in a very, very long time.  The goose reminds me that I deserve nothing less than 100% - in relationships, in friendships, at work, anywhere.  Nobody gets to make me believe differently.

I have a long road ahead of me as I work my way through ending my marriage and starting my life over. It is a process, and a taxing one, at that. But with the support of my amazing family and wonderful friends, and the magic of my goose tattoo, I know I'll get there.