Once, when I was about seven, I'd found a sparrow's nest in one of the bust-up garages on the edge of the estate. There were three blue eggs, perfect as a painting against some white fluff and grey brown feathers..... I picked them up. They felt precious and thrilling. I carried them carefully back home and took them straight to Dad. I assumed he'd be as excited as I was.
His face went angry, then sad when he saw what I had...'You see,' he whispered, 'she [the mother bird] might be able to smell you on 'em, then she'd be too frittened to come near.'
'Does that mean the babies'll die?'...
'Thing is,' he explained as we got past the church, 'if you take even one egg you're not killing one bird, you're killing millions.'... 'Because that bird would have had babies, and those babies babies of their own, and so on and so on, down the generations. Ad in-fin-i-tum.'...
But baby Will lying so trusting in my arms, delicate flaring nostrils, little screwed-up yawn; I so nearly destroyed you. I was so nearly such a bad mother. I can't believe what I almost did with your life and your mother's. Every time I look at you, I'll feel the weight of what might have happened; all that future wiped out.
- The Bad Mother's Handbook by Kate Long
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There's a fine line between being creative and being crazy.
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