The $1200 I Saved

I fell off a ladder today. Luckily, I landed on my feet like Simone Biles. I was surprised that my 42-year-old knees, ankles, and hips did not buckle. As I steadied myself (mainly my heartbeat because OMG I am old and can’t be doing these things), I realized I could’ve done some serious damage to my body. I suppose I could see my death dodge as a miracle or a sign or a double rainbow or whatever, but I’d rather just wait for my gold medal.

I was on an old, rusty ladder surrounded by overgrown trumpet vines, wisteria, and weeds because I refused to spend $1200 just to have my bushes trimmed (though I’ve spent at least that much to laser an altogether different type). Instead, I got out my old hedge shears and a heavy-duty tarp, then charged up my Ryobi battery to finally try the hedge trimmer I already owned. For the last few years, I have ignored the messy mass that has surrounded a disgusting, makeshift, wasp-, mouse-, and other creature-infested greenhouse in my backyard. It hasn’t bothered me because there is something whimsical about the wildness of the wisteria or the way the trumpet vines attract hummingbirds in my otherwise highly manicured neighborhood. However, it was time to tackle the overgrown monster, because:

A) It was creeping into my neighbor’s yard

B) My goal this summer is to enjoy the crap out of my backyard

C) It was the last thing on my backyard to-do list

D) I am secretly hoping that if it’s nice, my teenagers will invite friends over instead of going to their friends’ houses. We only have a few years left with them, and instead of shoving them into summer camps, I’m finding that as they get older I want to spend as much time with them as I can. 🥹

My landscaping was going well as I shaped the huge mess into a more respectable, trimmed situation. It had the look of someone who cuts their own bangs or yanks a brush through their hair when they leave the house, versus the way a toddler's hair looks in the morning (or any time of the day, tbh). Overall, slightly improved.

However, despite falling off a ladder and sticking the landing like an absolute pro, there was a problem.

During my scissor-happy trimming session, a catbird on the fence nearby would not shut up. I could hear its constant squawking over my AirPods (I was listening to How to Read a Book, by Monica Wood), so I finally stopped and pulled them out. The freaking catbird was squawking directly at me. I looked around and realized why: I had accidentally destroyed her nest. In turn, I had also accidentally destroyed my heart as I found her cute little fledgling, bewildered and scared, in the detritus. His eyes were open, and yes, he had all his feathers, but he couldn’t fly yet. He would be easily snatched up and eaten on the ground. Now, not only was I a home wrecker, but I was also a murderer.

I ran inside the house, waving around my cheap utility gloves while covered in dirt, sweat, and green streaks, simultaneously panting and holding back tears while I confessed to my husband, who, seeing my distress, googled what to do. I needed to right my wrong. I had to get the fledgling off the ground and make him a new nest. I frantically Scotch-taped a little nest together out of cardboard, scooped the fledgling into it, and tucked it back into the dense vines.

Alas, the fledgling had tasted freedom. He refused to stay in the cardboard nest forevermore and kept popping up to the edge, then falling to the dirt, basically begging for a predator to find him. All the while, the momma catbird continued yelling at me. I deserved it. This was all my fault.

I couldn’t leave the little guy like this, so I made him an even bigger cardboard box nest, gathered him off the ground again, and gently shoved the box deeper into the vines. Again, the little rascal popped right out, but this time, he steadily latched on to the protected vines. Thank the sweet Lord he finally used his pea brain. I checked on him throughout the day, but ultimately gave up and decided there was nothing else I could do.

I call this The Frantic Repair Loop™️.

I (unknowingly or unintentionally) cause harm, then panic and try to fix it, instead of relying on my instinctual knowing of when to repair, when to help, and when to step back. Truthfully, I admit I wanted to fix things partly to relieve my own guilt. However, the more uncomfortable, honest thing to admit is that there are things I can’t fix. The fledgling did fine once I stopped handling him.

Like the momma catbird, I am in the season of teenagers. Fledglings. Mini-adults who are close, but not yet ready to be fully independent. I can’t fix everything for them, either. Ice cream or hugs or promises don’t work like they once did (although on occasion, Starbucks will).

My oldest just spent her first weekend with friends down the shore—a rite of passage if you live near the Jersey Shore. Like the fledgling, she can’t fly yet (she can’t drive or have social media), but she’s had her first taste of freedom. Now back home, everything looks different. The old rules of the nest seem small and silly and make her irritated: “Don’t eat straight out of the container of cut watermelon cubes, please. Get a bowl.” or “You aren’t allowed to get rides with new drivers.” I am giving her the cardboard box, and she’s choosing the vines.

I still want to insert myself in spaces that parenting has outgrown. I want to fix everything: my emotions, their pain, the ugly bushes, whatever. I am older, wiser, stronger, and more capable. I can still land on my two feet like an Olympic gold medalist, dammit! Despite all that awesomeness, however, I’m not always needed. UGH. Like the obnoxious momma catbird, I can’t fix everything, either.

But yes, the bushes definitely needed to be trimmed.