Each spring’s cycle of birth and renewal reminds me all mothers are essentially alike. One look at a momma cow with her calf tells you don’t want to mess with her baby.

Over decades, my students wrote many essays detailing the results of interfering with young animals. Mothers aren’t only tender. They’re tough when necessary. Just a few days ago, a family of fledgling wrens reminded me how mommas fuss over their babies and that I should stay out of their business.

After a recent rain, I explored my yard to see how plants were growing under the unusual wet conditions. Until the downpour, our section of the creek had gone dry, and our buffalo grass couldn’t have been more dormant. An old grape vine growing creek-side particularly interested me.

While I counted clusters and imagined future jars filled with wild grape jelly, a rising crescendo disturbed my reverie. Since we have a wren family living off the back porch, I recognized the “shirring” sounds. However, I had never heard so many little birds in an uproar at one time.

Evidently, I had interrupted a mother and her fledglings as she taught them to find their own insect dinners. Not six feet behind me was a rotten log loaded with morsels to feed her and her babies. I interfered not only with her lesson, but also with quality dining.

Not meaning to threaten them, I quietly turned to watch this wary protectress with her offspring. Apparently, my statue-like presence created a menace because she admonished even more intently. Like children I’ve seen at the grocery store’s candy counter turning their backs to ignore scolding parents, these juvenile wrens did exactly that. They looked at mom and at me. Then they returned to devouring crunchy bugs.

This drove Mrs. Wren nuts. She dramatically flitted back and forth. If wrens can fling heads and wings, she did. With each dart, her tone intensified an octave. I’m not of her species, but I clearly understood her meaning. Finally, all but one of the babies reluctantly left the dinner table to fly to shelter. I couldn’t see them, but I could hear mom and fledglings’ raucous comments. Nobody in that tree was happy.

That left one little wren at the log. Like most families that have one child who marches to its own drummer, this fellow wasn’t a bit concerned at momma’s and siblings’ fussing. Despite louder warnings, the youngster didn’t give its guardian a second look.

I know how Momma Wren felt since we also have fledged offspring. As our daughters moved into adulthood, I found myself apologizing to my mother as well as thanking her for her patience and care. It’s no easy task letting children go, especially those with independent spirits.

Finally, my heart couldn’t take that mother’s frantic cries any longer. Since her baby refused to respond, I left, removing her imagined peril. As I walked away, I recalled my own mom’s wish for me and thought I hope that baby wren has a young one just like it.

Native Kansan Karen Madorin is a local writer and retired teacher who loves sharing stories about places, people, critters, plants, food, and history of the High Plains.