"Owl Babies" by Martin Waddell and Patrick Benson

Summer is the days of abandonment in the Writ Small household. For years, my wife and I have hardly ever used a babysitter, let alone spent a weekend away from the kids. A mix of frugality and pandemic has meant we’re all too present in dinnertimes, bedtimes, and mama-I-had-a-bad-dream times. This is not a brag -- it’s a lament! This summer, in an attempt to remember we’re more than just vehicles for our children’s every waking desire, my wife and I planned to drop the kids off with their grandparents.

For weeks we’d been wondering how we were going to ethically disappear, especially given the attachment instincts of J, our almost-2-year-old. Her limited vocabulary means she’s constantly asking after “mama” and “dada,” even when we’re sitting right next to her. She is a reincarnated koala, clinging to our legs as we shuffle around the house. Her most immobilizing move is when she comes at us from the front, grabs both legs and buries her head in our crotches. For added effect, she often shakes her head back and forth, wiping her mouth all over our pants. One morning, she did this after a yogurt breakfast. I thought it best that I change before work.

And so in the lead-up to the drop-off we worried about how best to extricate ourselves. Parents are always assuming their small decisions will somehow traumatize their kids, but even if we didn’t fall into that trap (and we did), vanishing seemed rude. 

We should have just read “Owl Babies” for guidance. It tells the story of three owlets who miss their mom after she leaves the nest. It’s a spare yet iridescent glimpse into what happens when kids worry about being left behind and the cleansing joy of reunion. 

As written by Martin Waddell and illustrated by Patrick Benson, the kids -- siblings Sarah, Percy, and Bill -- are more like parents who stay up all night until their teenager comes home.

One night they woke up and their Owl Mother was GONE. 

“Where’s Mommy?” asked Sarah.

“Oh my goodness!” said Percy.

“I want my mommy!” said Bill.

Unclear why mom didn’t leave a note. Now the owls have nothing to do but worry. Sarah tries to keep a brave face, and Percy does whatever his big sister does. But Bill is too young for bravery. Bill just wants this to be over.

The illustrations paint the owls as almost bioluminescent, the only light in a forest full of dangers. “It was dark in the woods and they had to be brave, for things moved all around them,” the narration goes. The owlets glow as bright as their bravery, casting light onto the forest as they search for their mom. But as they close their eyes, the shadows creep in.

Amid the fear, they find solace in each other. “‘I think we should all sit on my branch,’ said Sarah. And they did, all three together.” Still, they worry. What if she’s lost? What if she’s been eaten? “The baby owls closed their owl eyes and wished their Owl Mother would come.”

Then…

A happy ending! “You knew I’d come back,” Owl Mother says. Sarah says duh, she knew. Percy obviously did too. And Bill still just loves his mom. The return has melted everyone’s anxiety. Perhaps this story can do the same for the kids in your life. 

Still, an unspoken question haunts “Owl Babies.” Why did mommy leave? The kids don’t ask it, but before mom’s return they do try and answer it. 

“I think she’s gone hunting,” said Sarah.

“To get us our food!” said Percy.

“I want my mommy!” said Bill.

The book never provides a concrete answer to what mom was up to -- there’s no field mouse in her beak, no nest-worthy twigs in her talons, and no story she tells about where she’s been. She was just gone, and now she just isn’t. Sometimes parents leave. And then they come back. Trust the process.

Anytime I think about leaving my kids, it’s tempting to think that the disruption it will cause isn’t worth the nourishment I will receive. But a) that’s my particular concoction of martyrdom and narcissism; and b) it overlooks the lesson “Owl Babies” has for the parents who need it. Eventually parents have to step away, no matter their species. 

But us humans are looking for a different kind of sustenance than owls. Silence, freedom, uninterrupted time to stare into the maw of the Internet -- whatever your timekink is, it’s unlikely you can do it guilt-free with kids around. The hunger for that kind of agency can feel almost animalistic. And even if we don’t bring anything back from our time away, our kids still benefit.

And so after many prep conversations and reminders, my wife and I put the kids to bed and left in the night, so we wouldn’t have to do a big, dramatic goodbye in the morning. We called the next morning and … everyone was fine. While we were gone, J apparently wouldn’t stop saying “mama” and “dada,” but that’s like saying she wouldn’t stop breathing.

In the meantime, we spent the three days cleaning the house, eating at restaurants my wife’s Instagram feed had been bullying her to try, and going to see a dreadfully boring indie movie without having to pay a babysitter. We also did a whole lot of nothing.

And then we came back. 

---

After the success of the first grandparent drop-off, it happened a few weeks later with a different set of grandparents. Again, the kids were unharmed. Imagine that.

Think I felt guilty about abandoning my kids? Imagine how I feel about abandoning your inboxes! But we’re getting back to some semblance of normalcy around here. Keep those spam filters loose.

Want to buy “Owl Babies”? You can! By clicking here! Or here! Or here! They all lead to the same place -- a place where I make a 10 percent commission on your purchase. If that offends you, do not click here.

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