On a beautiful Sunday morning, I hit the highway with my older child and two toddlers. A cautious sun peeked through, and judging by their light clothes, I braced for a hot day. I cranked up the music to drown out the budding backseat squabbles.
As I accelerated—Sunday mornings are blissfully quiet—I spotted a crow family feasting roadside. I eased off the gas, but most flew off; one didn't. It collided with the car and lay still on the asphalt. In my rearview mirror, I glimpsed a wing fluttering—a final farewell.
If I'd kept my cool, nothing more would have happened. But I yelped with the requisite 'Oohs' and 'Aahs.' My older child piped up from the back: 'What's wrong?' Unable to fib, I confessed, 'Mommy just hit a crow.' They translated for the toddlers, who wailed at high pitch: 'Mama killed a bird! Mama killed a bird!'
One toddler burst into tears while the other demanded, 'Bird now? Bird now?' I soothed them: 'It's sad, but I couldn't avoid it.' Tears flowed on, and my older child stepped in with comforting logic.
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'It was a black bird—black isn't your favorite color, right?' 'There are tons of birds, so it's not so bad.' Deep questions about color preferences and life's uniqueness swirled in my mind, but I let them handle it. 'You know what's really bad? If it were a person. Then I'd cry buckets—wouldn't you, Mom?'
The toddler sobbed on. Eventually, we agreed to check the spot on the way back and played 'count the cars' to distract. Returning, noses pressed to windows, they scanned for the crow. Like so much in life, a new perspective revealed harsh realities: the highway dotted with dead hedgehogs, birds, rabbits, even a cat. Backseat 'Oohs' and 'Aahs' echoed mine.
No crow remained at the scene—confusing yet hopeful. My older child imagined it crawled to safety; a toddler pictured friends caring for it. Still, 'Bird now?' lingered. I drove on quietly.
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