Babies and birds in boxes, and the prophesies of friends

Last week, I had the honor of sitting with some lovely and talented ladies to make dolls late into the night. Of course, there was wine, good conversation and abundant laughter. The honor, however, was that Carrie had gathered us, our supplies and our talents together to make these dolls for Craft Hope. Being the clenchy, must.be.prepared. girl that I am, I arrived with prototypes.

The proud kiddos & their babies

The boys picked out their own fabric for the project and stuffed their own dolls to send to someplace that sounds marginally like Nicaragua when they say it. Bailey stuffed limbs, turned the dollies and stuffed hers. I had to leave the face drawing to Carrie - I might be able to pull off a face-looking face after several attempts, but just applying a face, willy-nilly, to a finished doll, as if there was no possibility of failure (and the probability of failure is, in fact, quite high in this situation, I think) is just not going to happen, especially with friends who sport mad skill in this area.

While we worked, Carrie was relating the story of a little girl, interrupted while throwing beached starfish back into the sea, by an adult who admonished her that there were too many, she was too small, and she would never make a difference. The little girl tossed another beached starfish into the surf, replying "well, I just made a difference to that one."

Eight more babies were made that night, around Carrie's kitchen table, and posted along on the first leg of their journey a few days ago. I hope they bring even a fraction of the joy and laughter of their making with them on their journey.

The next morning, with very little sleep and very little coffee on board, I noted a fluttering sound coming from the wood stove. I managed to convince myself that it was just a sound from the top of the chimney (and therefore relieve the rather pointed bout of cognitive dissonance one develops when one hears VERY LOUD fluttering coming from one's wood stove first thing in the morning - the kind that is screaming "THERE IS SOMETHING VERY WRONG HERE!!" inside your under-caffeinated mind...No, screaming voice, that is just the wind... settle down now. Thanks)

Then the peeping and pecking at the window in the stove door started.

When there is pecking, the only choice one has is to call The Husband on his morning commute and have a conversation that goes something like this:
Me: Honey, there's a bird in the wood stove.
The Husband: Really? You know, I heard a bunch of fluttering and a sound like something falling out of the stove pipe... I didn't think it fell all the way into the stove, though.
(silence, while I wonder what kind of person hears a damn bird fall down a three-story chimney and forgets to comment on it)
Me: I'm trying to figure out how to get a bird out of a wood stove. You know, without just opening the door and letting it fly around...
(eyeing the stove and wondering, in great detail, how I can disconnect the pipe and drag the stove to the front door with my hand over the opening... )
The Husband: Ok, well, just leave it in there. I'll get it in the morning. It'll be fine.
(Uh, no I don't believe "fine" is a state anyone would be in 24 or so hours after finding themselves suddenly in a wood stove. The best you could hope for "traumatized", I think. The worst? Dead. The karma that comes from knowingly letting a creature die in your wood stove... and the psychic trauma that comes with explaining to the children that, yes, there does appear to be a bird trying to get out of the stove, but we'll be leaving that for Daddy to deal with tomorrow? No. Thank you.)

So, after pondering how heavy I thought the stove might be - because, let's face it, the bird was already in a pretty perfect package, not withstanding being stuck and all - and then coming to my senses and admitting that uninstalling a wood stove and dragging it out on the porch to free the misplaced wildlife was probably not a good plan, I fetched the obvious solution: the collapsible butterfly habitat.

Bird must have been wondering what took me so long to get that idea because as soon as I slid the open top in front of the stove door, he hopped right in. And then he gave me the "idiot" look. Bird was gracious enough to wait for the children to come down and say good morning, and pose for some pictures. Then, he (she?) flew out of the butterfly habitat, across the street and into the tree where some friends (family?) were waiting.

meet Bird

So, to recap - Babies: on their way. Bird: happy, healthy and free (and possibly not scarred for life). Karma: intact. Making a difference, one baby (or bird) at a time: priceless.