Tweet. Tweet. Hey, you. I said, TWEEEEEEET!
We found a bird in our upstairs hallway this afternoon. A real. live. bird. He had pooped all over my historic postcard of Paunzhausen. With the constant tweeting, I first thought he had gotten caught in the chimney and warned Sophia we might not be able to do the fire tonight at her birthday slumber party after all.
"There's a bird in there," I calmly stated. Then I looked to my left and saw he was pooping on my hand basket.
My husband, the biologist, viewed the bird liberation as a welcome challenge after running errands all day with the kids. Quick as lightning, he got a sheet, covered the windowsill, and ushered the bird outside.
What a hero. As I scrubbed the poop-stained floors, all I kept hearing was "I'm as a free as a bird now..."
Free the bird. Anybody got a lighter so I can thrust it upwards concert-style as I sing?
