We found a baby squirrel. He found us, actually. Climbed onto my foot and sat there shivering. We warmed him up and tried to feed him raisins. Which he acted like he had never seen before. Then I realized, he was still nursing. I put a straw of milk in front of him and he knew exactly what that was. We were told by the owners that the mother squirrel had made a nest in the attic of our cabin and that they had "cleaned it out." Meaning his mother was gone. We were it, and we took care of him. The kids rocked him to sleep and we woke up several times that night to feed him and make sure he was warm. It was a family decision at 3 am to name him Mac. Like Big Mac, only he was a Little Mac. Greg had to come back to Ogden on Friday for an appointment, so he ran to Wal-Mart and bought kitten formula and a bottle. Later Friday night, into camp wandered another baby squirrel. Same size, same shiver. Jack said:
"Look! It's Mac's brother......it's probably Cheese!"
And then we had Mac and his brother the Cheese.
I sent a silent prayer to heaven that another one named With-hot-dogs-in-it, wasn't going to show up next.
I gave the kids the choice driving home of what to do with them.
We could keep them. They would have to be in a cage and I wasn't sure how that would work with Piper our super mean cat. Sweet, gentle Sage didn't mind them at all.
OR
We could take them to the Wildlife Rehab place and have them take care of and re-release them.
Halle said Wildlife Rehab instantly. She thought that we loved them so much we should let them have the best life they could. Jack didn't say much. When we got home, we loved them, took some pictures, and then took them over to the rehab place. We filled out paperwork and they told us the squirrels would have a great chance of being released and doing well. They would be released in a month or so, semi close to our house. I told the kids we could picnic near there in the fall and maybe the squirrels would come by to say hello.
Many tears were shed (by me) and we left. We stopped by my parents to pick up a cooler and when I opened the back of the Tahoe to put it in, I saw Halle's rock she had taken as a souvenir from the creek. I tossed it up into the back seat to her, and didn't realize that Jack was laying down next to her. It hit him in the mouth and chipped his tooth. Weeping, wailing, and gnashing of mostly in-tact teeth ensued.
Of course I felt awful. I mean who throws rocks at their kids and chips their teeth? Me, it would seem.
I didn't think too much about it, because Jack was freaking out in the backseat. I drove us home and began freak-out control. There was no blood and the tooth wasn't loose. Jack, however, was screaming the scream of torture. I got a Tylenol down him and finally, overwhelmed that I couldn't "talk" him calmer, I picked him up, wrapped him up in a blanket, sat in the rocking chair, and sang to him. I haven't had to do that for quite awhile, and he doesn't really fit in my lap anymore. Eventually, his cries turned to sighs and his eyes drooped shut. It happened exactly like it used to when he was a baby and over-tired. Or when the frustrations of those toddler years were too much for him.
Later tonight, while we were looking at the weather online, he said:
"Mommy, do you think Mac and Cheese will remember how our hands felt when they come to see us during the picnic?"
I glanced over and saw huge tears rolling down his cheeks. I was taken aback by those huge silent tears. He's felt badly many times before, but empathy hadn't brought him to tears.
And I realized, we are to the stage that there are some hurts you can't rock away in the rocking chair.
And it broke my heart....
well, that and I really miss Mac and Cheese too.
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