Tasha Does Tulsa.

One of my grandmothers has a nickname for me.

She calls me Little Bird. Now, this isn’t one of those just-for-no-reason, cutesy type of nicknames that everyone makes fun of each other about on the playground.

It’s because, over the course of my short life, I’ve preferred to stick close to the nest.

Like a baby bird.

That’s why when I saw this little guy (at least, I think it’s a guy) on my back porch last spring, too little to fly very well on its own and looking lost and scared and not sure about what to do next, my heart ached.

Sometimes, when I’m in a situation that’s outside of my comfort zone but is necessary for my growth, I feel like this little bird.

I mean, look at this thing. Who hasn’t felt like this at some point?

All alone. Far from home. Small and scared. And all I want to do is turn tail and head back to the nest.

My grandmother, she knows this about me. And while I think she would have been perfectly happy letting me stay a little girl forever (what parent doesn’t entertain that thought?), she has always pushed me toward the edge of the nest anyway, even when it made both of us ache.

And even when I’d yell at her for pushing.

This is how I look in the morning, by the way. A little lost, a little pissed off, but mostly just fluffy.

On this Mother’s Day I’d like to thank the mothers in my life who continually push me, not just for the sake of being better at something, but to achieve my potential, even when I’d rather snuggle into what was comfortable at the time, as I’m wont to do.

Because when the nest is safe and warm, there’s nothing like a mother to know just how to tell you to locate your socks, grab a coat and move your ass.

Happy Mother’s Day, all.

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