T

here’s something different about this bird’s nest.

I find myself constantly checking on the pigeon that has taken residence atop the air conditioning unit outside the kids’ bedroom. She sits like a nomad and a queen all at once. Her vacant eyes stare back at us as we ogle her.

Birds literally flock to our apartment ledges. I see the telltale signs of a budding nest every few months, and I’ve learned to quickly dispose of the twigs and sundry items to discourage the birds from setting up their home at our expense.

But this time, I was too late. I grabbed my supplies (broom, gloves, garbage bag), determined to get rid of this abode. But just as I was about to shoo the mamma bird away, I spotted an egg.

A perfectly white, oval egg, still warm.

My breath caught in my throat and my entire body seemed to still as suddenly, inexplicably, my arms were covered in goose bumps. I couldn’t explain the feeling, but I knew I could not get rid of that nest. I rationalized by telling myself that we now had the opportunity to teach our kids about shiluach hakein. I put the broom, the gloves, and the garbage bag away, figuring I’d bring them back after completing the mitzvah.

A funny thing happened, though.

Even after doing shiluach hakein, I couldn’t bring myself to shoo the mother bird away again and destroy her nest. In fact, I grew surprisingly excited when I spotted another egg. When I saw my daughter advance towards the nest with her hands outstretched, I yelled at her. (Choosing a pigeon’s child over my own — ironic, I know.)

And now, every day I watch as the mother bird sits on her throne ever so patiently, waiting for the eggs to hatch. I’m comforted by her reassuring coos, by the sound of her rustling wings sending secrets to the wind.

The circle of life continues, with me as the witness.

Maybe I’m drawn to this bird because I’m a New-Old Mommy.

Because with Yosef's pregnancy and birth, everything changed.

When he fluttered inside me, I became a New Mommy. Every kick, every movement, reminded me of the miracle brewing within.

But I was also an Old Mommy. My three beautiful, lively children enriched my life, filled my home with warmth and love, challenged me daily, physically, mentally, emotionally.

I’d always taken childbearing for granted. Sure, I davened hard, I worried incessantly, I researched every symptom, oddity, outcome ad nauseum. I was an anxious mommy-to-be in my pregnancies, yet I had no true reason to doubt that anything would go amiss. The worst I had to contend with was an overactive imagination.

But after a serious illness, my approach to childbearing changed. No doctor could say with certainty that I’d be able to get pregnant again. My mind constantly traveled down that shadowy route of “what if?” What if I would need medical intervention in order to bear more children? What if I would never have another child?

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 635)