When I think of seagulls, I think of irksome squawks, poo, sausages, and now – death.  I know that they’re birds, animals that are said to symbolise the soul or freedom.  And I know that they’re white, a colour which can signify purity, innocence or virtue.  But any mom who witnessed what I and other moms witnessed this past week would likely join the Consortium to Sort Out Sick-Making Seagulls.  Call it maternal revenge. 

Prior to what shall henceforth be referred to as The Seagull Incident, the idyllic backcloth – picnic remnants that somehow indicate that the words spoken and the laughter shared between bites and drinks will stay with the picnickers for a time, along with sundrenched up-aboves, sporadic swans on the Thames, and children’s chatter – was its own beautiful morsel of life. 

When I first saw the seagull – the eradicator in The Seagull Incident – I was reminded of how my mom would always say, “Rain’s coming,” when we heard their squawks.  I was also reminded of my high school days when the flocks, reminiscent of vultures, would swoop down in a feeding frenzy and attack our lunch remnants.  Minutes later, they’d pinpoint their victims – using a precision targeting system obviously borrowed from the US government – and drop their excrement bombs.  The human screeches served as indicators of who’d been hit.  

Watching the seagull – who by this time was flying in a repetitive circle above one particular spot on the Thames – also took me back to a time when my husband and I had a lazy Sunday, indulging in brunch only steps away from the Pacific Ocean on a beach in southern California.  As we dined outside and were about to take the first bites of our food, a seagull plunged toward my husband’s plate and pinched his sausage.  Absolutely no pun intended here – we’re talking seagulls.  After the bird managed to gobble the last bite, he flew to a nearby swimming pool and gulped some water, presumably to help wash down the banger. 

During The Seagull Incident, a banger was replaced by two live ducklings.  Some moms and I sat along the Thames with our little ones, watching boats go by, pointing at the cows on the other side, listening to the harmonics of the train wheels on the track, and then the seagull abruptly interrupted everything.  After circling above, he dove toward the first duckling – whose mother and six siblings were close by – and trapped it in his beak, carrying it away to eat it.  As this happened, all of us moms were shouting and running toward the seagull in an attempt to scare it away and save the duckling’s life.  Of course, our hollers frightened some of the little ones, causing them to ask what we were shrieking about.  I looked at the other moms, and I don’t think any of us knew how to respond.  One mom and I stared at each other, both searching for clues on the other’s face of how to explain to our little ones what just happened.   Another mom was in shock and continued to apologise for her instantaneous reaction to scream loudly.  Only moments later, having been satisfied with his appetiser, the seagull came back for his main.  Mother duck left with two less ducklings that afternoon. 

Moments like these unfortunately serve to remind us that life strolls – and sometimes leaps – alongside death.  Now – contrary to what my adoring husband may believe – I’m a glass half full sort of person.  I have had my moments of glass half empty and glass with but a few drops left at the bottom, but they are fleeting (note to self:  find a book that uses a metaphor suitable for the inner-workings of the male psyche which explains the difference between pessimism and realism).  

For days, I couldn’t stop thinking about The Seagull Incident, replaying it in my mind, and my glass felt empty.  And for days, my son insisted on telling anyone who would listen about The Seagull Incident, complete with shrill sound effects and flying and diving motions, and with each telling, my heart would break a little.  I’m aware of evolution, of survival of the fittest, of food chains, of nature, of all of it.  But awareness and firsthand, live observations or experiences are different. 

The Seagull Incident has also served to remind me that there is an empathy, a sensitivity that moms have for other moms, often regardless of whether they know each other (I never met the mother duck).  One of the moms present at the Incident said that a few days later, she felt somewhat emotional, saying that the seagull eating the ducklings emphasised for her how short life is and how lucky we are to be able to enjoy it.  At the same time, there is a bittersweet feeling that little ones grow up.  Her little one will start school soon and while she knows that it’s time to let go and move on to the next phase, she’s sad that this wonderful period of her and her little one’s lives is coming to an end. 

I want my son Enlai to aim to understand evolution and to have a respect for both life and death.  My hope is that if in the depths of his mind he understands that we human beings are mortal, he will live more fully.  And I will be here, not to help him see that his glass is half full, but that it runneth over.