Happy Brush Turkey Day

I’m so scared of getting older
I’m only good at being young
So I play the numbers game
To find a way to say my life has just begun

Had a talk with my old man
Said, “Help me understand”
He said “Turn 68, oh, you’ll re-negotiate”

“Don’t stop this train
Don’t for a minute change the place you’re in
And don’t think I couldn’t ever understand
I tried my hand
John, honestly, we’ll never stop this train”

Oh, now, once in a while, when it’s good
It’ll feel like it should
And they’re all still around
And you’re still safe and sound
And you don’t miss a thing
‘Til you cry
When you’re driving away in the dark

Singing
Stop this train
I want to get off and go back home again
I can’t take the speed this thing moving in
I know I can’t
‘Cause now I see, I’m never gonna stop this train

Stop this train. John Mayor

A black bird is hard at work in the middle of the bush, hidden behind red gum trees and small grass palms. Scratching, collecting, and racking large amounts of plant debris and dirt into a huge leafy mound. What must have taken the animal weeks to build looks like not much more than a pile of dried leaves. When it is done, however, it will be an oven-like nesting mound with a built-in temperature controller to keep the inside at a perfect 33 degrees. 

May I introduce to you – the Australian brush turkey. Or bush turkey. Also called scrub turkey or Gweela bird. And despite its name, it is not related to the North American turkey. Covered in black feathers, a flat tail, and a bare red head, this bird is quite frankly not very attractive. Hanging from its neck, a bright yellow throat wattle tells us it is a male brush turkey. The female is nowhere to be seen. No wonder she has a reputation as Australia’s worst mom. Right up there with the cute little quokka, who throws its babies at the predators in order to escape. 

When the brush turkey male has finished building the perfect incubator mound, a female will show up to lay her egg inside before she leaves to look for the next perfect male with a mound. And another. And another. And another. In the end, up to 24 eggs from various mothers and fathers will end up in the carefully constructed pile of leaves. And for the next 50 days, the brush turkey father’s job is to control the temperature inside the nest by adding or removing layers of leaves and keeping away any predators. 

Once the brush turkey chick hatches, it is on its own. After two days of scrambling vertically through a metre of dirt and compost to reach the surface, it’ll have to fend for itself. Its parents have little to do with its chicks, and it has to grow up without any adults to protect it or show it the ropes. Like young sea turtles or crocodiles, there is absolutely no parental care. 

For the last ten days, I had my oldest son visit me from Canada, and while you may call me a brush turkey when it comes to parenting, I must have been the proudest and happiest mom in the local bush. I showed him my hood in Newport (which he called a “nice retirement community with a beach”) and took him to Manly Beach for dinner (which he liked much better with its cosmopolitan buzz and relaxed vibe). We took the bus, the ferry, and the train to see the Harbour Bridge and Opera House, walked through Hyde Park and had coffee in Paddington. And finally, we made it to Bondi Beach.

Calvin had been at Bondi before – though he didn’t remember it. Exactly twenty-four years ago, we visited this iconic beach. Back then, I worked at the German-Swiss School in Hongkong, and we went to see friends in Sydney. Obviously, he doesn’t remember this trip, as he wasn’t even a year old then. He doesn’t remember playing at Milson’s Park, feeling the first snow on his face in the Blue Mountains, or sitting in the warm sand at Bondi Beach, getting knocked over by a wave. I remember him not being amused back then. Life isn’t easy, just like the brush turkey chick would say.

The hardest part about moving to Sydney to live and work here is leaving my children behind. There is a lot of guilt connected with it. I try to justify that they are all (almost) adults and have moved out. That their father is still there to look after them (just like the brush turkey man). That I can text and talk to them any time. That they can visit me, and I will be home for Christmas and summer breaks. Yet, the guilt remains. What kind of mother leaves their children to live her dream?

I have come to the point where I know that staying at home with my children would not have made me a good mom, just like going away doesn’t make me a bad one. It’s never black and white when it comes to parenting or love in general. There is a lot of grey area. Going back to Sydney and finishing my dream of living and working abroad will make me a happier person and, thus, a better mom. 

When I was travelling with my son, it was good to show him what I love so much about this beautiful country: the beaches and the ocean, the rainforest and reefs of the North. We snorkelled in crystal clear waters and drove along the windy roads of the Daintree Rainforest. We walked along the beach at night, scared of crocodiles. Had breakfast at the beach, lunch at Maccas, and dinner under the stars. 

Of course, we had some tense moments, too – mostly when I was driving (needless to say, I wasn’t driving for long, and he took over). But overall, we had a great time. A time to remember. Proud momma moments. It was great to show him the school I am working at. As a teacher, he appreciated the uniqueness of the place and the large variety of resources. And it was good to show him that it’s okay to have dreams and to follow them – even if it comes with a dose of guilt.

We heard the rainbow lorikeets and kookaburras screaming in the tree in front of my bedroom window early in the morning. Saw the bin chickens go through the rubbish in Sydney’s Botanical Garden. Watched the cockatoos forage for pine nuts at the beach. Saw warning signs of the dangerous Cassowary bird along the road and laughed about the ancient Demon Duck of Doom. And we said goodbye to the brush turkey following us to our car on the last day of our trip before Calvin had to return to Canada.

It is Canadian Thanksgiving this weekend, and I think that brush turkey is better off staying here in Australia – bad parent or not. Though he may not even be a real turkey and taste rather nasty, people may not know that back home.

I give thanks for having my son visit, spending time with him, and realizing that maybe I am not such a bad mom after all. 

And to Australia for providing us with the most bizarre and entertaining take on the “turkey.” Gobble, gobble! Or Oo-oo-oom!, as the Australian brush turkey would say.

Cheers!