We did a bunch of online research to help him figure out how to feed baby birds, then Mr. Cool brewed up a special mushy concoction that only a mother could love, and offered it to them in a little dish. When the birds wouldn't eat...he further solved the problem by asking for a syringe. (After reading this post you know I happened to have one handy.) We detached the needle and it quickly became an ideal baby-bird feeder. Here he is, feeding the fluffy little guys by hand, through the syringe (he had to do this about every 45 minutes, until they finally went to sleep):
At one point I offered to take him to Blockbuster to rent a movie, and he said he’d rather stay home and take care of his baby birds. Surprised, I asked him, “Really? Are you sure?” Then he said, “They’re just so little and cute, I’d do anything for them.” Wow. A sacrifice. He gets it. The kind of love parents feel for their children. He's beginning to feel and to forego in much the same way for these baby quail.
He got up at 4:30 this morning to check on them, and fed them a little more. And I couldn't help thinking, he'll be a wonderful father someday.
Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father [knowing]. (Matthew 10:29)
(Oh, and speaking of good dads, my brilliant husband was both quoted and touted in Salon.com, which was then picked up by the New York Times. Check it out...and then check out the season finale of Jer3miah, here.)