When my son woke up today I wanted to tell him that the baby bird was saved by its watchful parents and was likely being fed and kept safe in the bushes.
What I didn’t want to tell him was when I awoke the baby bird was still where we had left him, in the middle of the lawn, but sadly, was no longer. I crept outside in the early morning and moved the bird’s remains to a more appropriate place in the garden and kept quiet about the whole thing.
I dread the children finding a baby bird. The only luck I’ve had with baby birds is bad.
There hasn’t been one successful scenario of a baby bird being found just under it’s nest allowing me to gently return the baby bird to its family with glowing smiles all around.
