Bad Bird

When our 2 1/2-year-old daughter first climbed into our bed, Linda and I thought nothing of it. The second night she did it, we waited for her to fall asleep then carried her back to her room. The third night we thought something might be wrong. On the fourth night, we finally asked Lara what was bothering her?

"The bad bird keeps me awake," she said.

 

We were living in Chestertown, Maryland where I had graduated from Washington College several years before. Our house was practically on the Chester River and had been built prior to the Civil War. It was a classic Victorian with tall ceilings and lots of gingerbread filigree along the roof line. An old tree grew just outside of Lara's window.

 

On that fourth night when we put Lara back to bed, I opened the window and leaned out to shake the branches. "That ought to scare the bad bird away," I said. Lara thanked me then hunkered down under the covers. But it didn't work. Towards morning, she appeared by our bedside sobbing. The bad bird had scared her again.

 

She slid in between us for protection. After she drifted off, I climbed out of bed, dressed and went outside with a flashlight. I searched the branches of the tree, but there was nothing there. The next afternoon, at Linda's suggestion, I bought several Japanese lanterns and hung them in the tree to scare away whatever roosted there at night. But they failed, too.

 

During the day while I was at work, Linda tried several role-playing games to help Lara to express her fears. In them, Lara would take a blanket and show her mother how she hid under the covers from the "bad bird". My reaction was that all little kids see monsters hiding between the clothes in the closet at one time or another. I did and I grew out of it. Lara would, too.

 

"But she really believes it," Linda said.

 

The fifth night really put the pressure on us as parents. For five nights running, something had been bothering our daughter and we had failed to discover it. Having done everything we could think of, as an act of desperation, we called on the cat.

 

Omar was our gray and white tabby. When Lara was born, he had adopted her as his special charge. Each night when we put her to bed, he would climb into her crib and sit sphinx-like at the head of her bed. When Linda or I checked on her, as new parents frequently do, Omar's only reaction was to slowly turn to see who was standing in the doorway, before turning back and re-assuming his Egyptian posture.

 

Our mothers were horrified. How could we allow an animal in the same bed as our child? Didn't we know that the cat would suck the air out of the baby's lungs as it tried to lick the milk off the baby's lips? Old wives tales notwithstanding, nothing happened. Omar accompanied Lara everywhere, even to the bath where he again amazed everyone by allowing her to kick water all over him while he played with her feet.

 

Omar finally stopped sleeping with Lara when she grew big enough to move around and grab at him. He also made himself scarce during her toddling stage, but he was never far away and always came when called. Not knowing what else to do, we called him on that fifth night.

 

"Remember how Omar slept with you when you were a baby?" Linda asked.

 

"Yes."

 

"Remember how he wouldn't ever let anything happen to you?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Well, we are going to leave Omar in here with you. If the bad bird comes back, he'll catch it. Ok?"

 

Lara immediately brightened up. She hugged Omar and quickly scurried under the covers. Omar looked at Lara, then at Linda, then at me, then hopped up on the bed and made a nest near Lara's feet. When he was settled, Linda and I closed the door and left the two of them together.

 

If my wife and I thought we were going to get a good night's sleep, we were mistaken. Several hours later, Lara came running into our room and joyfully announced that Omar had caught the bad bird and that there was nothing more to be scared about. Linda and I celebrated with her then sent her back to bed. However, as we watched her trundle down the hall, Linda said to me, "Is it my imagination or is she talking as if Omar actually caught something?"

 

"Maybe we'd better go check," I suggested.

 

It was only a few steps to Lara's room. As I entered and turned on the light, Linda screamed. There was Omar sitting in the middle of the floor, proudly holding a large bat impaled on his fangs.

 

"Is that the bad bird?" I asked Lara.

 

"Yes," she said.

 

"Wow, no wonder you were scared," I said. "That's a very big bad bird." I sat down on the bed and put my arm around her. Linda came in and sat down on the other side of her. For the next few minutes, as calmly as we could, we tried to find out if the bat had bitten or scratched her. Fortunately, it hadn't.

 

While we talked, my mind raced over all the unusual combinations of words that Lara had been using lately, and I suddenly realized that we had not been paying attention to what she had been saying. Yes, we heard the words, but we had not understood their meaning… like "bad bird". Not knowing what a bat was, Lara had expressed herself using the only words she knew. The bat was "bad" because it scared her and a "bird" because it flew. And I began to wonder just how many other times we had missed what she was really trying to say.

 

That night, Lara taught us that listening is an art and not something to be taken for granted.