"Where's your camera, mom?"

Drew was in the garage shooting the puck at the net set up in front of all those %$#@ chippies. Max was in the front room MSNing with anyone on line.
I was at my computer in the family room when I heard a frantic fluttering sound coming from the fireplace.

I peaked over and shor'nuff, there was a small bird flapping furiously against the glass.
All I saw was the small blue pilot-light flame and imaged roast robin in my family room.
I called Max in a panic-y voice.
He took one look at the situation and said,
"Where's your camera, mom?"
"What? My camera? What for?"
He pushes past me to the dining room and grabs it.
Hovering near the fireplace, he sets up his shot.
"Wait a minute. The flash is going to freak them, isn't it? I better not."
"How are we going to free them? If you open the doors they're going to fly around the house for hours before we'll be able to shoo them out..." In my mind, these innocent cute little tweety birdies were going to transform into blood sucking vampire bats upon release from their fiery glass cage.
"I'll just open the door partway and catch them one at time (turns out there were two of them in there) in a towel. Then I'll carry them outside and let them go."
Huh. Who'd a athunk it? He was unflappable in this flappable crisis. The boy who puts on major freak shows at the sighting of spiders, was going to calmy handle our birds-in-a-fireplace-with-a-pilot-light-flame-burning emergency.


Never have I been so proud of that boy.