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After the kids were in bed tonight (a night that ended in
utter devastation, with Grace telling me I’d broken their hearts because I got
fed up and “threw away” all the toys left all over their bedroom floor), I
headed out on the deck to call a friend who would hopefully tell me that I did
the right thing, despite the “broken hearts,” tears and Oscar-worthy drama. She was a good friend, indeed, and
didn’t even suggest that I remove the wire coat hangers for good
measure.
As I was confessing, er, conversing, I noticed a rabbit in
the grass. It was certainly the mama bunny to the nest of baby bunnies we have
in our yard. This nest is at least the fourth nest of babies to be born in our
yard this year (I now know how rabbits have gotten their reproduction
reputation…they multiply like I do) and I am thinking word has gotten out in
the rabbit community that I am a sucker for things four-legged, and that our
fenced, dogless yard is a delightful place to double as a labor and delivery ward
for the preyed-upon.
For those less knowledgeable about rabbits, an overview: Mama
rabbits scratch a hole in the ground that’s large and deep enough to hold two
small apples. They have their babies in the hole and then pack and cover them
with their own fur and grass and leaves. They camouflage their nest so
excellently that you can easily walk right past one and never even know it’s
there. Rabbits hide their young in plain sight and only visit at dusk and dawn
to feed, so as to not attract predators to their babies.
My rabbit knowledge developed this spring, when I mowed over
a nest. I didn’t even know what I’d stumbled upon. We had some badly neglected,
lengthy grass, thanks to a lawnmower that’s more temperamental than
two-year-old Liam. I mowed and saw a nerve-wracking amount of fur, not knowing
what I would discover. After much nervous poking, there were the baby bunnies
(unharmed). I panicked, fearful that I’d scented them with human and lawnmower
stink and that the mother would abandon them. I packed the nest back up and was
convinced I’d compromised the nest and ruined the natural plan. I placed grass
in a certain pattern over the nest to ensure that the mother was indeed coming
back. The patterned grass didn’t seem to move. I worried the bunnies were
starving. I kept peeking in on them to make sure they were still breathing. It
was early spring with cold nights. I worried that they were going to freeze,
being so small in their earthy nest. One night yielded a torrential downpour
that caused me to go outside at 1 AM and fashion a “tent” over the rabbit nest
so that the mother could still get to them, but so that they wouldn’t drown in
their hole. I did internet searches, called animal shelters, and was prepared
for a rescue mission. I didn’t sleep normally for a lot of days.
And all the while Mike, ever the voice of reason, talked me
off my ledge and out of my crazy, reiterating what the animal shelter people
said…that nature is pretty efficient and animals know what they’re doing,
without any human intervention or makeshift lawn-chair tents. I find his
patience and passivity maddening, and even moreso when he’s right. And, after a
week or so, the babies emerged from the nest and eventually moved on to live
their rabbit lives.
Though I was a nervous, first-time bunny “mother” just a few
months ago, when I saw the mama rabbit in the yard tonight, I knew she was
there to feed. I watched her closely as she straddled the nest. Though it
looked like she was just a rabbit hanging out in the yard, I knew she was
directly over the nest and I could see little rabbit heads poking up from the
nest, suckling at their mother. She was statue-like and only because I was
aware of what was happening could I discern the little, bobbing ears in the
very small space between her underside and the ground. She fed for a couple of
minutes, then sat on her haunches and gave herself a meticulous bath, carefully
packed the nest up and went on with her rabbit business, hopping gingerly under
my fence and away.
And it was in these rare, quiet minutes that I was doing
nothing except watching this mundane, yet fascinating, bit of nature, that I
had the quick stab of melancholy that Mike isn’t here to share this with me. Of
course, there’s always sadness that
he’s not here to share the craziness of our kids, which, oddly, somehow makes it
less noticeable (like a chronic ache or pain that you barely notice simply
because it’s always there and you’ve learned how to carry on in spite of). And it’s quietly devastating that in
these strange, random, unexpected moments – like finding a rabbit nursing babies
in your yard – love demonstrates itself, and I am reminded of how much I miss
him.
