When you realize you became your parent

“Look here I just tattooed

A wedding band

On what looks like to me

My mother’s hand.”

— Ani DiFranco, Albacore

I’m a caregiver to my 86-year-old mother, and I was helping her get ready for my niece’s wedding ceremony. My mother tires easily and doesn’t leave the house much these days.

I count myself lucky to have her around when so many are motherless.

That morning, I put her hair up to keep the white strands off her face while putting on her makeup. After her makeup was done, I let her hair down, and for a brief moment, I saw an older me.

I shook my head like an etch-a-sketch to call reality back.

My Los Angeles brother was in town for the wedding, and I showed him this website. He got a kick out of the last post’s photos of the owl siblings and incessantly asked to see the owls.

I agreed to take him, being very upfront that we might not see any. On that Sunday morning, he met me after church at the trail and without much effort, we found Owl Mom. My brother, in his church shoes, experienced an about-face in his attitude when I reminded him to check for ticks after our trek.

He took some photos with his phone and flatly stated he was “over it.” That was that.

Ticks drain the fun out of the moment.

He left town, and a few days later, I was squirrely at dusk, so I grabbed Sarah’s camera and went to find the owls. As I turned and walked up the hill, I heard their calls and immediately recognized Owl Dad. His call is soft-pitched, gentle, and wise-sounding.

I suspected the other call was one of the offspring because it wasn’t as strong as Dad's or Mom’s, but it also was no longer the nasally, wheezy sound I described in the last post. There was a force of air under it now, while still sounding timid.

It was the call of an adolescent child to a parent.

I found Right perched on the branch where Owl Mom sat on Sunday. Right is nearly identical to her mom. There are a couple of ways to know she was the daughter and not the mom. One was by the tiny “horn” feathers jutting out on top of her head where horns logically grow.

I can also tell her youth by the crisp freshness of her feather colors and the bright clarity in her eyes. To see for yourself, just look for the sharp reflection of light in her eyes.

Some of these details are only evident with the help of a zoom lens or binoculars.

While I was lost in my thoughts, Right flew to another tree further away.

I hold my breath every time an owl drops from a branch and flies off. It feels like a declaration- a bold move worthy of a pause.

After Right landed, her silhouette was framed by a negative space of leaves.

She was on the hunt, and I challenged myself to find Owl Dad, who was occasionally calling in the close distance. He was in an area I don’t typically tread. It is more wooded with less sun and more bugs.

Following his calls, I hiked, and the first tree I looked up, there he was directly above me, relaxing with both eyes shut. His great-horned feathers smashed under leaves, and the white on his chest betrayed his camouflage against the dark trees.

One moment later, one eye briefly opened, then closed.

It was a perfect Midwest summer evening. I watched the youth, who was busy in her newly trained responsibilities, and the elder who supervised with one eye open during nap time.

The perk of getting older is that while the parenting job is never over, rest is well earned.