Who would have thought that a trip to the National Aviary would produce this type of reaction from my all creatures great and small lovin' daughter?
Well, apparently, she does not like birds.
It took one low flying swoop to send my girl into a panic of Hitchcock proportions.
Are you seriously asking if I'm being dramatic?
Of course I am!
That's not to say there wasn't panic. Oh, there was panic all right. Not getting trapped in a phone booth type of panic, but rather, locate the nearest exit and vacate the habitat as quickly as possible panic.
Upon leaving the building, Harper wouldn't even go near the pigeons. Pigeons. Even Bert loves pigeons. How will I ever take her on my dream mother/daughter vacation to London, and specifically Trafalgar Square, if she's experiencing ornithophobia?
If anyone should have been traumatized, it should have been me! I was the one who got pooped on! (Just the arm - don't freak out on me - I got a free button to wear as proof).
Zane? Bird-maestro. He, who usually can't stand loud noises, endured the squawks of the Lories in order to feed them a small cup of nectar purchased by sucker-mom for $3.00. He was enthralled.
Harper? Not so much.
You can cross squawking and swooping birds off her desired list of Pittsburgh activities.
You won't hear me yapping all my best bird phrases any time soon. The mere mention of birds gives her the shivers. No a bird in the hand . . . or the early bird gets the worm . . . or birds of a feather flock together . . . nope.
Ducky. Just ducky.