The "empty nest syndrome" is a traumatic experience we human mothers somehow manage, but how about avian moms, how do they cope?

How well I recall the days Callbie and I delivered our children to a college campus. The hollow feeling never got any better. The drive home again after depositing the last of our brood was silent, except for bursts of dialogue, such as:

Callbie: "Well, we've got the house to ourselves ... peace and quiet at last!"

Me: "Yeah, but it may be TOO quiet."

Callbie: "Jane, it can never be too quiet after what we've been through ... all that wild music, hours on the telephone and ..."

Me: "I know, I know, but after all those years ... we're used to it."

Callbie: "Speak for yourself. I'll never like their kind of music, or understand having cold pizza for breakfast or..."

Me (giggling): "But it was mostly fun..."

All of the above ran through my mind the day I innocently witnessed the "rites of passage" of the first brood raised by a pair of Carolina wrens in a planter on our back porch.

I had watched the entire process from day one: Mrs. Wren brought in leaves, mosses and pine straw and constructed her nest; I counted eggs each day until there were 5, then incubation began.

When nestlings had a dusting of down, I lifted one and brought it into the house for Callbie to see. (Mother Wren and I have a rapport; she didn't mind.)

As the time approached for the nestlings to solo, I never imagined I would be lucky enough to witness my feathered grandkids airborne debut.

I happened to be mounting the steps to the back porch that special morning when ZOOM, a brown blur swept past me, fluttered to the ground and parked at the base of a pine. I rushed out to see if it was OK. Parent wrens, engineering the event, scolded me soundly at the intrusion; I backed away in a hurry.

When I stepped onto the porch again, three more babies were poised on the edge of the planter ready for lift off. Triple zoom! BUT, two flew toward their parents' voices in the back yard, and the other little guy winged toward the front yard. Oh, no! He's confused! I panicked!

I dashed inside and blurted (babbled?) the whole story to Callbie. Mr. Cool assured me that the parent birds would resolve the problem.

Later, his prediction was confirmed when I strolled out into the front yard and heard the soothing voice of a feathered mother patiently reigning in her prodigal son.

Happy Mother's Day to all moms-- homo sapiens, furred or feathered!

janew@bbnp.com