When one baby bird kills its infant sibling by pecking it to death or pushing it out of the nest, it’s called Siblicide.  As I sit here at this lonely kitchen table, I can’t help but wonder if my son learned this atrocious behavior from the birds.  For some bird species, it’s a necessity. Used as a remedy for scarce resources, the older, stronger sibling must eliminate its competition.

In the twisting shadows from my candle, every shape looks like my youngest child.  My infant child, not yet two months old, killed by his toddler brother.  I wonder what part of human nature this represents. Is it one of those dark and misguided instincts, a remnant of harsher times?  Or was it a fault of mine, an unworthy parent?

With birds, siblicide may occur organically between siblings, or it may be provoked by parents.  Digging into their DNA, the gruesome act may indirectly benefit the long term genetic viability of the species.  The strong survive, the strong breed, new strong birds are born.  I wonder if these same instincts are floating about my son’s chemistry.  My three year old was unaware of his own strength, naïve to the fragility of his six week old sibling.  Jealousy, a tantrum, when the dust settled only one remained.

The three year old was unapologetic, ignorant of his atrocities.  He didn’t want his mother’s attention going to this newborn, this intruder.  Before the baby, he was the recipient of all my attention.  Resources were comfortable, playtime uninterrupted.  With the baby gone, he thinks things will go back to the way they were before.  I don’t know how to tell him, things will never be the same again.

To the police it was a freak accident.  To social services it’s a tragedy.  Neither explanation brings me any comfort.  I wonder to what extent, as a mother, I am at fault.  My children were not under my supervision at the time of the incident.  If they were, maybe I could have stopped it.  Maybe I would have been able to sense these siblicidal instincts as they sparked in my son’s eyes.  One more clarification on proper baby brother etiquette, one more reprimand, surely there was one more – something.  Something I could have done to stop it.

For bird’s it’s simple.  The parent’s look on as the more developed chick pushes the hatchling toward the edge of the nest.  In a few stories fall, the work load is cut in half.  One less mouth to feed.  How I envy their apathy.  If only it were that easy to forget – to forgive. 

My three year old son may have been acting in my favor.  As a single mother, providing for two children was a struggle.  I wish I would have known his intentions.  I could have told him that this was not the solution – that we are not like the birds. 

Fratricide is what the term is for humans.  From the Latin word “frater” meaning “brother, and “cida” meaning “killer.”  Murderous birds seem so benign in comparison.  At three years old, my son has already made an unforgivable mistake.  At play time I try to forget.  He still laughs without worry.  I search his smile for mistaken instincts.  I wonder if there’s any more bird blood in his veins.

They say time heals all wounds.  I’m not certain they’re correct.  For me, it’s silence.  My only refuge is found deep into the night, at this lonely kitchen table.  Unfortunately, the sound of birds wakes me every morning.