Parenting in the Pines

Parenting Pines IN THE

In the Pink

BY AMANDA ODEN

THE OTHER DAY I WAS DRIVING MY 5-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER BOWIE HOME FROM DANCE CLASS.

We had the radio on but I was focused on the cars on the road while simultaneously making a mental shopping list of the groceries we needed to stop and pick up, and trying to remember if I actually took the chicken out of the freezer before we left or not. I wasn’t really paying much attention to the music or what the radio show host was talking about, so I was kind of surprised when Bowie loudly snapped me out of my ongoing to-do list by yelling from the back seat, “Mommy, what does the word ‘hobby’ mean?”

I explained that a hobby was something you enjoy spending time on, or do just for fun. She thought about it for a second and said, “Your hobby must be cleaning because you do it so much!”

I laughed and quickly clarified that while I enjoy living in a clean house, I do not consider picking up messes that I did not make all day a hobby. She seemed satisfied with my answer and busied herself with a library book in the back seat.

But then I started to wonder, exactly what are my hobbies these days? Three kids, ages 5 and under, at home

all day, don’t leave room for much idle time. Before having kids I loved reading and always had at least two or three books in rotation. But now it seems the second I crack open a novel, someone has a boo-boo or needs a diaper change. I used to love going to comedy clubs or dancing with friends, but those things require babysitters and the energy to be out past 9 p.m. Even shopping has lost its luster because it’s typically of the grocery variety.

By the time we got home, I’m not going to lie, I was feeling pretty bummed. I’ve been so busy wiping noses and serving Dino Nuggets for the past five years, I think I may have lost track of the person I was before I constantly asked to name your favorite everything) I’d have to say mine is a flamingo. I knew that they turned bright pink because of all the shrimp, krill and red algae they eat, but honestly didn’t know much about the species except that they were kind of cool looking.

This particular program focused on two new flamingo parents after their first flamingo chick hatched. The mother and father flamingo painstakingly took care of their new baby (the mother maybe a smidge more than the father), ensuring the chick had plenty of shrimp, krill and at one point even actual blood from the flamingo mother’s beak because she could sense her chick was low on iron!

As the flamingo chick flourished and That’s what the flamingos do!”

Indy, our 13-month-old, waddled around the living room yelling, “Sad! Bird! Bird! Sad!”

But Bowie, my oldest, squeezed my arm and said, “Mommy, just watch, your pink will come back.”

And sure enough, as the program played out and the flamingo chick became more independent, both the mother and father flamingos started to regain their color. By the end of the documentary both parent flamingos were hot pink once more.

I don’t know what my hobbies will be when my chicks are more independent, but I’m excited to have them again. Knitting? Painting? Rock-

The act of birthing and raising a baby made both flamingo parents visibly deteriorate, and within the species, the change from pink to white feathers is literally a signal to other flamingos to “Please leave me alone as I am busy with my child.”

began this motherhood journey. I used to be so fun and vibrant, and now if I have a moment to myself I mostly just want a hot shower and a long nap. What happened?

When we got home, Bowie and her brothers requested a snack and to “watch some tee-bee” and because I was now in a funk I obliged (even though mid-day screen time typically ends in tantrums). We all snuggled up on the sofa and settled on a documentary about birds on Disney+ (so that I could tell myself this was educational and not feel guilty). We all sat peacefully learning about penguins and hummingbirds. Typically when I can distract all three kiddos with a show, I hop up to tidy the kitchen or fold laundry, but today I decided to just watch the nature program with them.

After the hummingbird segment came one about flamingos and I perked up a little. If I had to choose a favorite bird (and with small children you’re got bigger, fluffier and more confident on its stick-like legs, both the mother and father flamingo went from bold pink hues to dull gray, almost white, washed out feathers. The act of birthing and raising a baby made both bird parents visibly deteriorate, and within the species, the change from pink to white feathers is literally a signal to other flamingos to “Please leave me alone as I am busy with my child.”

For some reason this made me emotional and I started quietly crying. My 3-year-old son Arlo was the first to notice that I was upset and asked why I was sad. I didn’t really know how to articulate why this documentary was affecting me so much so I kind of choked out, “Mommy feels like a flamingo and I think I lost my pink!”

Arlo, always the problem solver, was quick to suggest I eat more shrimp. “Mommy, the next time you go to the store just buy a lot of shrimp to eat.

For some reason this made me emotional and I started quietly crying.

climbing? After a few consecutive nights of sleep I’m sure I’ll be capable of anything! I just need to remind myself that I haven’t lost anything. I’m just in the middle of making sure my flock is self-sufficient.

Right now my feathers may be gray and white, but I’ll just be over here snacking on shrimp cocktail, patiently waiting to get my pink back.

SP