I have survived 20 months of a pandemic and the depths of distance-learning despair. As God as my witness, this woodpecker is not going to take me down.
But I might be unraveling.
Last year, while working from home with my two kids closed out of classrooms, I had to fight the incessant call of "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM. MOM. MOM!"
Nevertheless, I persisted.
This fall it's been replaced with "Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap tap. TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP!"
And I worry I will not make it.
Torture by woodpecker is a first-world problem, one I hadn't bothered to care much about when I would encounter the gripes of other homeowners. Complaining about these birds seemed like an unreturnable crossing into middle age, the way one bemoans stubborn belly fat or expresses shock over their first colonoscopy prep. Yes, they're unpleasant, but we don't need to hear every detail.
Boy, was I wrong. You need to hear every detail, because now it's happened to me.