At the school where I teach, we have a bird box webcam.
Every spring, my class of six-year-olds and I watch as a pair of blue tits lay their eggs, see them hatch then spend thankless weeks toiling to bring them a seemingly endless supply of caterpillars.
Then comes our annual highlight; watching as the chicks begin to leave. One by one, the fledglings hop up to the edge of the nest before stretching their wings and disappearing from view, accompanied by cheers from my class.
It occurred to me last year that we have no way of knowing what happens to those birds once they take flight.
How many soar, make it through their first night or start families of their own the next spring?
They vanish from sight, a different unknowable chapter of their lives starting while our view stays fixed on the now empty nest.
My own nest is rapidly emptying. Elliott is 20 and reaching the end of his time in a college for people with severe learning disabilities. His brother, Caleb, just 18, has his heart set on heading off to university.
By the end of 2026, both my boys will have started their next chapters, leaving me, my wife and their younger sister behind.
I can’t help but cast my mind back to those blue tits and how not all of them leave the nest equally.
Some hop up to the hole at the top of the bird box with confidence and a lack of fear.
They’ve seen their parents fly in and out for weeks, they have grown big and strong and can stretch their wings wide. They are ready to fly.
But others spend hours cautiously sidling up to that same hole before jumping away again
in fear. It can be a long process to get them to make that first, terrifying jump.
Greatest leap
More than once, I’ve watched the last, lonely bird spend hours circling the nest, trying to pluck up the courage to jump up to the precipice and take the greatest leap of faith.
It is a queasy feeling to see one leave the nest when they’re not ready for it.
And so it is with my boys. I can feel Caleb itching to get out into the world.
I look on him starting to write his own story with equal parts excitement and sadness – I’m going to miss the little guy. (He’ll always be the six-year-old that needed me to help with his Lego, even if he can buy me a pint now.)
The itch for independence is absent. He would stay at home forever if he could. We’re looking for Elliott to leave rather than him looking to fly
But Elliott leaving home is a completely different proposition.
Elliott is not ready to leave because he will never be ready to leave.
We’ve lived in the same house since he was two. He’s always had the same room.
It is all he has ever known and all he has ever sought to know. The itch for independence I see in his brother is absent. He would stay at home forever if he could.
And therein lies the fundamental truth of it; we’re looking for Elliott to leave rather than him looking to fly.
We’re the parent blue tit, gently pushing their weakest baby to the edge of the nest while their siblings have already soared into the great blue yonder.
There are no promises that Elliott is ready for it. No promises that we are, for that matter.
Elliott’s cognitive ability is about that of a three-year-old. You can count the number of three-year-olds who are ready to leave their parents’ side on the fingers of no hands.
So, rather than feelings of excitement and hope, Elliott leaving home fills my days with dread and worry.
I hope we’ll make a good choice for him. I hope we’ll find people who can look after him well. I hope he’ll be happy.
But we’ll never know that for sure and right now – unlike his brother – his nest feels awfully high and his wings awfully small.
