MommyCoddle

A warmer heart

I've got a new sidekick when it comes to morning chores. 

I can't even utter the word "outside" unless I have her completely bundled. Otherwise, I'll be attempting to dress, shoe and bundle a baby squirming and wailing at the mudroom door, eager to break free from her indoor jail. 

Some days, we can't even be bothered with shoes. I'm lucky if I can get a sweater over her head and a hat secured under her chin before she's pushing through the door. 

She often brings her morning banana. I try not to think about where and how many times it is dropped. And what bits of dirt and whoknowswhat that cling to it. Or which animals she's offered a lick before taking another tiger-sized bite off the end. 

Instead of lugging her on my hip, we've discovered the garden cart makes a pretty convenient way to trek back and forth to the chicken coop. 

I put her on the concrete pad in front of the coop while I work.

She sits in the pile of chicken feed like it was a sandbox created just for her. The hens eye her cautiously, pecking around her, as she tries to feed them from her chubby palms. This must be why the hens follow her around so closely. They know she offers food.

I collect eggs, check on the babies, freshen up water, and throw clumps of soft, fresh green grass into their pen. 

When we cross back over the little wooden bridge on the way home, she is thrilled by the water running under our feet. I'm amazed at her ability to perch on the very edge of the bridge, crouched down, babbling at the water. I miss that kind of flexibility and balance. She's telling me a lot of things about that little stream. I talk back to her like I understand every word. 

Eventually, I convince her there's more to see on the other side of the bridge. But before she hits that slippery, muddy patch, I swoop her up and plop her back in our farmer's stroller. 

Her favorite friend blocks our path with a croquet ball in her mouth. A leaf dangles from her lips. She's relentless. 

If I'd let her, she'd stay out here all day. The only way I can coax her back inside is to bring the dog and a small furry kitten with me. She finally follows, waving goodbye to the crowd of animals gathered around her, like the queen of the animal kingdom.

I peel off layers, wipe her runny nose and notice her muddy sleeper-feet. And she's gone again. Disappearing into the belly of the house. Following the dog. Calling for her sisters. And I'm left to hang up sweaters, shove hats back in the basket and pry the barn boots from my feet.

The house feels warmer now than it did when we first set out this morning.

So does my heart.

Confessions of an irresponsible farmer

I have to confess, lately I've handed over the egg-collecting, chicken-feeding duties to my children. While I enjoy a good trek to the coop with my morning cup of coffee, I've been letting the girls handle the chore. I haven't been to the coop for much more than a nightly lock-in, in quite awhile. 

Apparently, it's been ooooh, about 21 days. 

Precisely the amount of time it takes for something magical to occur in an un-monitored nesting box.

This morning, the children on chicken-duty came blasting back into the house to let me know we had baby chicks. 

No, we don't, I told them. Silly girls. 

But I followed them out to the coop and before I even got to the door, I could hear that familiar peeping.

And there, perched in her nesting box was one of our  Rhode Island Red hens with EIGHT little fluffy chicks tucked under her breast. 

This, by far, has been one of the best surprises ever on our little farm. 

Being the irresponsible farmer that I am, slinging all chicken duties onto the shoulders of my children, the girls confessed that this hen hasn't been letting them collect the eggs she was sitting on. Usually, the girls let me know someone is broody, so we can force her out of the coop during the day. But this time, the message never made it to me. And look what the lack of responsibility for my flock produced! (I'll have to try approach this more often. I wonder if a similar technique works on the vegetable garden?)

But I couldn't share this story without acknowledging that the chick's arrival today is full of irony.

Just yesterday, there was another rooster attack--this time on Elizabeth. It meant another call to my husband reminding him that something had to be done right away. And so yesterday evening, we all hid in the house, covering our ears while Dan took care of the rooster situation. And sparing details, the task proved to be quite complicated.

But today, those roosters, in a final statement of their immortaltiy and unwillingness to leave this earth, leave us with eight fluffy legacies. And chances are, I'll find myself attempting to befriend a rooster (or two! or more!) all over again.

Maybe I should call her Catherine

We have a rooster problem.

It's nothing new around here. I've chronicled our rooster troubles many times. There was Hedgie, the original rooster at Thomas Run, who helped me overcome some childhood fears and bad blood that already existed between me and the rooster-kind. He was my favorite. But we lost him on the night we lost almost everyone. 

Then, there was Roosevelt. It took two posts to write about Roosevelt, who was last seen waddling up the center line of Thomas Run, headed for the hills (or the heavens). 

But now, there's a new problem. This Spring when I purchased half a dozen chicks from the feed mill, that were supposed to all be hens, it turned out that two of those six were not. And so we now have two large Rhode Island Red roosters courting the ladies and fighting for their affections. 

Unfortunately, these roosters are a little too full of themselves. One of them has a strong dislike for one of my favorite hens and has her quarantined to the far side of the farm. If she dares cross the stream with the rest of the hens, he attacks. 

Though that alone is enough for removal from Thomas Run, it is the latest offense that is even more inexcusable. 

The roosters have set their sites on Birdy.

The first time it happened the scene was pretty confusing. There was some commotion. Birdy was on the ground crying. The rooster was near but I didn't put it all together.

The second time, I was standing right there--as he came up behind her, head bowed, feathers splayed, doing his little dance.  He jumped up, pecking her on the back of the head and knocking her onto the ground. I was too far away to do anything but shout. And it didn't deter him.

He must think she's one of his hens.

And yesterday, he did it again. 

The funny thing is, I don't think Birdy has any idea who or what is randomly coming up behind her and knocking her to the ground. She still happily wanders around behind the chickens, hands outstretched, calling them kitty. (We're working on it. Kitty. Chicky. She'll get there eventually.)

It makes time outside a little nerve-wracking. Always on the watch for the courting rooster who has a crush on Birdy.  Maybe I should start referring to her as Catherine around the hens, to keep the confusion to a minimum. 

But, alas, I sent my husband another one of those emails yesterday:

The roosters must go. 

farriers & angels

When Ariel came under our care one of the first things we had to tackle was dealing with some of her drastic weight loss. We'd come to find out that she had Lymes Disease (ironically, so did Emma. Doubly ironic, they're on the same antibiotic), and another illness called Cushings Syndrome that was pretty rare for a pony of her age. 

So every day, along with her grain she gets 40 pills to deal with the Lymes (Aren't you glad you don't take pony-doses of medicine??!) and a liquid medicine by mouth. And I watch in awe as Emma administers it. Slipping an arm over her head, reaching her finger in her mouth to pull out any grass or hay and squeezing in a dose of medicine, that the pony hates. I don't get involved, because if I did, Ariel would know something was up. It's better to keep things calm and relaxed so she doesn't get worked up. 

And now the improvements in Ariel are really starting to show up. She's losing her bony look, there's even the bulge of some muscle in her back end, and we can tell--by the new spunky side she's showing--that she's feeling better, too. 

Last week, Ariel had her first farrier visit here at our house. Brooke, who, along with her husband, is the farrier at the barn where Emma rides, Ariel's temporary home before she moved here--showed up to take care of Ariel's hooves. 

It's a pretty neat process to watch. 

And Brooke's encouragement about Ariel's progress and how she just "looked happy and content" is always good to hear.

It's funny, through the big decision of taking Ariel and the learning curve (mostly mine) of having a pony under our care, I have felt more than ever that so many people are on our side. That people are rooting for us, helping us, supporting us. 

Last week, I got an email about Ariel's vet bill. The bill was a doozy. A horse-sized bill that makes one sputter and gasp just a bit. But I also knew this was part of the package. In that email I found out an "anonymous angel", who read my blog post about bringing Ariel to our home, had covered almost all of the bill. People are amazing.

God is good.

I just keep thinking for all the years of wishing and wanting and hoping that went on before Ariel was even a possibility, that patience and trust really pay off. When I get anxious about things, or want to force them to happen, my husband often reminds me to take the approach of waiting and knowing that the right doors will open. At the right time. We could have forced this pony thing to happen, or the fencing, years ago.

But we didn't.

And when the right door opened, there we were with open arms, ready to answer. 

joy in the sorrow

Last May, I shared about the passing of my friend and neighbor, Sarah. 

But one thing I didn't tell you in that story was my last "conversation" with Sarah before she died. 

Just days before, she sent me several messages through twitter (of all places) curious to know if we had any interest in her pony, Ariel. 

If you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll know that my daughter Emma is a horse girl. From her depths, the girl loves horses. Childhood "passions" come and go, but Emma's love of horses has only grown deeper roots in her little heart. 

She has been riding and taking lessons since we moved back to Maryland. I watch this video of her, four years ago and I am reminded that she has been waiting for "a pony of her own" for quite a long time. 

But a pony is no small commitment. If I had a dollar for every time I answered the question, "When do you think I'll be ready for a pony of my own?", I'd have enough dollars for seven ponies by now. Aside from being old enough for a pony, or having enough know-how, the big, glaring issue was right outside my kitchen window. 

A farm with no fencing. 

You can ask any of my close friends to know that I've been trying to figure out ways to get this little farm of ours started, to find the money in our squeezed-tight budget for fencing. (It is SO expensive!) Should I do something on kickstarter? Should I get a job? Should I make stuff and sell it on etsy?

Meanwhile, I'm telling my anxious daughter that some day the time will be right. Pray, I say. God knows your heart. And He already knows the perfect pony for you. And He knows when the time will be right. 

I often needed to remind myself of the same things. 

When Sarah sent me those series of messages, asking if we were interested, something jumped in my heart. 

Little did she know, that many of our errands brought us driving right past her house. That Emma would often get quiet in the back seat, hiding her tears--not just for a pony, but for Ariel. "She's the perfect pony for me. I don't think they have anyone riding her right now. Do you think they'd ever sell her?"  And I'd give her my same words of wisdom, which by now she could probably recite to me by heart. Pray. Wait. When the time is right....

That morning, when Sarah asked me, I immediately got on the phone with Dan. Teary, nervous. I had no idea that Sarah was just days from the end of her fight, but I knew this was one of those things she needed to settle. 

Dan simply said, "Tell her yes. We'll just have to figure the rest out."

We didn't tell Emma anything. The heartbreak if anything fell through would have been horrible. 

The man who owns the barn where Emma has been riding for the last several years said to bring Ariel there. She could stay until we were ready. For free. A gift.

But for a handful, Emma spent every morning this summer at the barn--taking care of Ariel, learning from the wonderful people who work and board their horses there, from my stepmother, who has taught her everything she knows. 

Eventually, with all this planning and fussing, she began to put the pieces together. 

"Is Ariel going to be mine?" 

Finally, last week, in the middle of the aftermath of Hurricane Irene, Ariel arrived home. 

By perfect timing (and God'd faithfulness to Emma's prayers, I believe) we found the funds for fencing. While we were in Virginia, a team of Amishmen descended on our farm and installed it.

Everything has come together. The timing is finally right. 

And there, in the midst of the sorrow of losing Sarah, is the big, bright glow of joy. She's sitting bareback on a pony grazing in my back yard. 

 

everyone has a story to tell

....about yesterday's earthquake that rattled the Mid-Atlantic. We East Coasters aren't used to such phenomenon. I was on a conference call with my Babycenter pals when the whole house started to shudder. And of course, earthquake wasn't even in my frame of reference, so I immediately thought, "This is it. This old farmhouse has finally had enough. It's falling down.This must be what it's like."

I was relieved all the girls were outside "babysitting" Birdy while I was on the phone. I ran outside, staring up at the house expecting to witness the walls and roof give way. And I thought, "Shoot. I'm still in my grey pajama pants {in my defense I'd been cleaning all morning}. My hair is a mess. I have no make-up on. And the baby is wearing soaking wet clothes from playing in the water tub."

Of course, I was slightly mistaken. My house wasn't falling down, we were just experiencing the tremors of the quake in Virginia. (Which also happens to be almost EXACTLY where we were on vacation. We even stopped for ice cream cones in Mineral.) 

And now that the earthquakes have subsided, we've moved on to the next natural disaster, waiting to see what this hurricane stirs up over the weekend....

But alas, let's discuss something much cuter....meet, Girl.

She was the special project that was included in our farm-sitting duties at my uncle's farm. Rescued when she was just a day or two old, she's been bottle-fed and cared for by their family ever since.

We saw her on her first days home, when she was refusing to take a bottle. Her legs like little twigs. I never imagined them to be so fragile. But now, having mastered the bottle, she's thriving. 

Girl hangs out in the fields around my uncle's farm and comes in around the same time each day when she's feeling hungry. Some days she'd be eagerly waiting on the front porch, another day I only found her by the tiny brown ears sticking up out of the bean field. 

These are the moments when I want to take my childrens' little faces in my hands, look them square in the eyes and say, "Do you realize how special this is? Do you realize how blessed you are, to be doing this?"

If there's one thing I want to instill in them, it's gratitude for these moments they experience almost every day, for the views out our kitchen window, for the open spaces to explore and run. For the closeness they have to the natural world around them. 

farm-sitting

If you stand in our back field and look past the stream, over the corn and bean fields, and to the top of the hill, there sits my uncle's farm. While we were in Virginia two weeks ago, his oldest son, took care of our place--chickens, barn cats, Ruby, the doves and guinea pigs. So when my uncle's family headed on their own vacation last week, we returned the favor. 

Along with the job of farm-sitting for my uncle comes the use of his RTV. It was our means to get back and forth from his place to ours--over the stream crossing, along the woods, up the waterways in the corn fields...(and yes, where I sometimes enjoyed my morning cup of coffee.)

With Mary kneeling in back, Elizabeth in the cab and Birdy tucked in on Emma's lap beside me, it was pure bliss for these girls. By the end of the week, the words "Let's take a ride in the Kubota." sent Birdy squealing and toddling to the porch door and everyone scrambling to find flip-flops and boots. (Why can't my children move so quickly any other time I try to get them all out the door?)

My uncle's chores are a little more involved than ours--pumping water Little House-style and hauling it to the horses, feeding, changing water and collecting eggs for his thirty-some hens, dogs, ponies, a pet turkey named Jimmy (who turns out to be a hen).

And my main helper was worthless--lost in a field of ponies. 

But the other two did their best to help me get the jobs done, while wrangling the baby and rounding up houdini chickens who didn't want to stay in their pens. 

It was nothing but fun. A little sweaty. Still fun.

But there was one special animal that we had to take care of that made the week even more amazing. She'd wander in from the bean fields, or be waiting for us (obviously running late) on the front porch. But she's cute enough to get her own page in the story, so for now, just a wee sneak peek.....

country wedding on the farm

I'm not even sure where to begin with sharing some photos from my cousin's wedding last weekend. I was a bridesmaid and Emma, Mary and Elizabeth were flower girls. The wedding was held on my grandparents' farm just around the corner from us. 

(the girls + their boots. thanks to my cousin megan !)

My dad is the oldest of 15 children, so just our family alone makes for a pretty big wedding.

Over that past week, as family slowly arrived and the house filled up again with activity and life, I did my best to soak up every moment.

This wedding was truly a family affair. From the fluffing and hanging of tissue-paper flowers, to the mowing and weed-eating and de-wasping of the lawns, to the weeding of gardens, the folding of name cards...every visit to my grandparents' farm during the week leading up to the wedding meant people scattered about doing their part to make this wedding an amazing, beautiful, thoughtful event. 

My photos don't even come close to capturing the day. I felt like I was in a bit of a daze of family and celebration and baby-wrangling, and prying my children from the dance floor to be sure they were eating something. So I look forward to eventually sending you all to the photographer's photos once he posts some. (He was amazing, by the way--and I'm not just saying that because he and my husband hit it off right away.) 

Maggie cross-stitched all the table numbers. The tables were simply covered with brown burlap, blue Ball jars and a mix of flowers.

My aunt created coloring books for the kids' table with images that were meaningful to our family and the farm. 

Not that I am shocked by this, but my children hardly left the dance floor. Elizabeth in particular has some moves that must come from her father's gene pool.

All local produce, greens, chicken and beef from my family's farm. Served on the back of a hay wagon.

Maggie freezer-paper stencilled Birdy and Sam onesies for the wedding. Birdy also loved the dance floor, but apparently for very different reasons....

We won't discuss the fact that Birdy managed to crawl under the DJs table and start fiddling with his cords. Thankfully, no damage was done, just a small heartattack for her mother....Birdy is going through the "if you don't want me to touch it, I'm gonna find it" stage. It's loads of fun.

And as the sun went down it became even more beautiful. The day, the weather, could not have been more perfect.

Luminaires all along the fence posts and lining the lane....

(and see that tiny little doorway in the background, at the top of the stairs?? That is where we lived when we first moved to Maryland with all three of our children. Some of my favorite days and best memories, even though it was a wee bit crowded. :)

Though Birdy checked out early, can you believe I let my children stay on the dance floor until the bitter end---10:45! Yikes. But these kinds of days don't come along very often. It was so worth it.

And then, there's the day after....the gathering in the "parking lot", as we call it. The sitting around, playing guitars, harmonica, singing, the babies crawling around, dodging scooters and bikes. I love the lazy day after the wedding.

And that evening, in pure Maryland style, crabs in the patio.

Definitely summer's highlight. Definitely.

kind of how we all feel

Yesterday afternoon I made an emergency trip to the store for basic sustenance to keep my family fed. Mary came along, though conversation settled into this before I even made it up out of  the valley.

This was The Big Wedding Weekend at my grandparents' farm. The girls were flower girls. I was a bridesmaid. Dan was chief baby-wrangler and meal-blesser. 

My house looks exactly like one would expect it to look after a weekend where I was home only to shower, sleep and pack up another series of clothes. Dishes piled up in the sink. The clean dishwasher, never unloaded, just slowly picked from. Totebags of clothing-changes, empty hangers waiting on the stairs. Laundry. Oh, the laundry. Bathing suits. Half-eaten muffins. And a kitchen table which, for the past three days, has never been completely cleared of a collection of cereal boxes. In fact, at eleven o'clock last night, I heard Emma down in the kitchen fixing herself a bowl after realizing she had pretty much played through dinner and forgotten to eat. 

I'm sifting through mess and sifting through pictures and feeling like this weekend, without a doubt, is probably the highlight of my summer.

I'll trade the mess for all the good living that happened in the past few days.

Back with more tomorrow.....

How can you deny her?

*Please note: All kittens pictured in this post are looking for loving homes! :) *

I carried a broom

I woke up in the middle of the night last night to the sound of a fox. Really, it's not that uncommon. We hear them all the time out the front windows of the house, in the fields across the road. But this time, the fox was much, much closer. In fact, I could tell it was in the back of the house and sounded close enough to be in our yard. I listened a little longer to be sure it wasn't just a dream or the breathing of the person in bed beside me.

You'd think I'd be desensitized by now, but I seriously HATE the sound of these foxes. They send chills down my neck and make me want to revert back to my thunder-storm-panicked childhood with hands clamped over my ears and covers pulled up to my eyeballs. But, I must put on a brave front for the little people in my house.

I coo to them, "It's just a sweet little fox. We're safe inside. There's nothing it can do. Just listen to it. Doesn't it sound so neat?" I'm such a faker. If they only knew.

Last night however, its proximity to the house had me a little panicked. I had visions of those little barn kittens scampering around the garden shed. I worried that we hadn't done a good chicken count before locking the doors of the coop for the night.

So I did the only brave thing a farm girl could do. I woke up Dan.

There's a fox!

It's in the yard!

The kittens!

Did we lock in the chickens?

What about Maggie????

Thankfully, Dan loves some good fox drama so half-awake he bumbled downstairs to listen more closely. Finally he opened up the mudroom door and Ruby went tearing off across the yard--whether it was after the fox or she just really had to go the bathroom, I don't know. But the fox either quieted down, or disappeared. Hopefully, the later.

Dan came back upstairs to find me and Mary standing in the hallway waiting for a full report.

Unlike many nights in this house lately, we'd played musical beds at some point in the nighttime hours. We stopped for a moment in the hall, discussed the fox, my concerns over the animals, maybe it was time to get some bullets for his gun, the fact that the little person sleeping in bed with me had slept through her need to go the bathroom, and was sleeping fitfully and kicking, and did I set his alarm for 5:30?

A small family meeting in the hallway. I felt like we needed to smack high fives and do a secret handshake before we returned back to our stations in seperate bedrooms with children needing to be snuggled.

The whole fox thing threw me off and I had a hard time falling back to sleep. My mind recalled stories of my mother's bravery. Of the night when she heard something attacking our guineas and raced down the steps and outside in her nightgown with a broom, a broom, swinging wildly in the dark at whatever was on the attack. She came back in and said something brushed past her legs and was gone.

I like to think that if neccesary, I could step up and have that kind of bravery. But for now, if Dan's available, I'll gladly default to him.

I did eventually fall asleep and my dreams involved a large mother bear and her cub which had gotten into the house. Dan and I were racing around upstairs dropping our children out of the windows to keep them from being gobbled up. A short fall obviously better than a bear attack. Maybe it had something to do with the bedtime story being The Biggest Bear, or the fact that Dan mentioned he left the mudroom door open so Ruby could come and go in the night.

All I know is that in my dream, I was brave. And I carried a broom.

photos? backside view of the house I grew up in. + my brave mother holding baby me.

on raising chickens and embarrassing your children

At ten this morning, I found myself hiking up the road--in my pajama pants and boots, carrying a big stick. I was walking behind the neighbor's teenaged bull, (who was once again in our yard), coaxing him back up the road and into the neighbor's pasture where he belonged. Mind you if this was the real deal, grown-up bull, I would NOT be doing this job. But this guy was young enough to not put up much of a fight besides a little head tossing and chomping of grass growing longer around the telephone poles.

Thankfully, my children are not at that age yet where the sight of their mother walking up the road, in her pajamas and boots doesn't completely mortify them. I know that day will come. I remember the days of mortification over the outfits my mother would wear to drive us to school. Even worse? When she'd have to drive us in the cattle truck--with its random outbreaks of a vibrating steering wheel you could hardly control and muffler that could be heard from two miles out. For now, I like to pretend that my children think my bravery and toughness is kinda cool, and they don't notice what I'm wearing. Please, just let me think that. Don't burst my bubble, yet. I have years of that ahead of me, I'm sure.

But this post is a chicken update! Enough with the bull...

Just days after I wrote about the joys of chickens in your bathroom I apparently reached my limit. I crossed my fingers and prayed that the temperatures were warm enough and the chickens feathered enough, and we moved the little girls out to a pen that sits at the back of our coop. If you ever find yourself building a coop, this pen is a great thing to have. It provides the perfect way to introduce new birds to your flock and allows them to get acquainted with their new digs before you let them go free range.

And did you know that the best time to introduce new chickens to your flock is after dark? Just slip them into the coop and when the next morning dawns, the original hens are less likely to make a big fuss over the newcomers. Apparently, chickens have some serious short-term memory issues.

The chicks did fine in the coop. We bedded them down with extra straw on a few nights when we worried about overnight temps, and tacked old yard furniture cushions over the window.

Not attractive, but effective.

Last week, we decided to give them complete freedom. We opened their door and let them see the true light of day.

Each day they get a little braver and now two or three of them are starting to venture outside of the coop, but still not very far. They still scurry back to their pen if I startle them. But curiousity always gets the best of them and they come out to see what goodies I might be offering.

It also turns out, just like last time, we're not looking at the addition of six new HENS to our flock. Turns out there's at least one rooster, maybe two.

Here we go again.

the hesitant gardener

Our garden is going in. Each night a few more things get planted. Each weekend, I stop at The Mill for a few more packets of seeds.

I have to admit, I'm not doing much gardening. Dan is the master-gardener in this house. My main job is chief errand-runner, chief "what to plant" decision-maker.

My work doesn't really kick-in until mid to late summer when things start appearing, needing to be harvested and cooked up and frozen and canned.

I'm guilty of being very ambitious in the cool, crisp days of Spring when anything feels possible and enthusiasm is at its peak. Unfortunately when my work really begins to matter we are in the dredges of hot, humid, sticky summer days when the last place I want to be is bent over a steaming pot in my sticky, non-air-conditioned farmhouse kitchen. Summer tends to suck the life out of me.

So each year we try to make a few adjustments to what we plant. Last year, we (probably me) made the mistake of putting in way too much corn. Even with staggered planting it was too much. In summer's heat I was never very enthusiastic about a large pot of water boiling in my kitchen and I lost all enthusiasm for slicing corn off ears, blanching and freezing.

So this year, there's no corn. I'll simply get what I want, when I want it, from a local farm stand.

This year there are more grean beans. More onions. More potatoes. There will be tomatoes, despite last year's disastrous crop that was almost a complete loss. There is spinach. And cabbage (for my cole-slaw loving child), and brooccoli.

I am no green thumb. In fact, I wear green gardening gloves just so that I can pretend to have one. Each year, we learn something new. Adjust, change our plans, make vows for next year's garden.

And I silently stand back and pray for a miraculous cool breeze blowing through my kitchen on the day that all the green beans are ready to harvest.

That's not too much to ask, is it?

What's going on in your garden these days? I'd LOVE to hear.

a dog, a baby, a chicken, a cow

This morning was quite a doozy.

Let's see, where to begin....Mid-morning my children's collective whining broke me down enough that I blew off school work to take them to the library. While driving, the grey skies opened up and decided to rain down a torrential downpour mixed with a sprinkling of tornado warnings. We bagged the library, opted for the drive-thru window to pick up our books and began the slow creep back home, watching the sky and listening to AM radio all the way....

I dropped the kids off for lunch at my dad's, anxious for an hour or so of quiet to deal with a few deadlines hanging over my head. 

I walked in the door to discover that we were without power. 

I walked up the stairs to put the baby to bed when I heard oddly loud squawking from the yard. From the upstairs window I got a glimpse of the neighbor's dog running around the yard chasing my chickens. I shouted out the window in my meanest "bad dog!" voice which sent Birdy into a screaming fit.

I ran downstairs and outside, crying Birdy on my hip, to discover the dog standing over a dead chicken.

I threw a stunned Birdy into the car to keep her safe, grabbed a big stick and threatened and yelled and chased the dog into our garden shed. I closed the door behind him, put a bench in front of the door for good measure and rescued Birdy (who was now hysterical) from the car. 

We walked to the front of the house, so that I could inventory my chickens and see who was missing, only to hear loud rustling and movement at the other side of the house. 

There, standing in the middle of my flower bed, was a teen-aged calf from my OTHER neighbor's farm. 

By this time, Birdy was still sniffling, but beginning to think that maybe this outdoor adventure was ranking higher on her list than a nap. 

I called in for reinforcement, trying to decide how I would manage a dog, a baby, a dead chicken, and a cow. 

Eventually, I decided I couldn't wait around any longer. I stuck Birdy in her car seat and drove to the neighbor's house to tell her I had her dog. My neighbor lost her husband just a few weeks ago, so I couldn't bear to tell her the whole story. I just said I had her dog in my shed. She asked if I could walk him home on his leash. Hmmn.

On my drive back from her house, I spotted the other neighbor pulling in to his driveway. I flagged him down and asked if he needed help with the calf. 

I became a human roadblock to keep the calf from traveling farther up the road as he herded it back into the fence. I hear Birdy wailing in the car. From her rolled down window, I wave at her and try to tell her I'm coming. She's not interested in my attempts at comfort. 

I returned to my driveway, only to run into my uncle who was coming to retrieve my dead chicken to put out for the Bald Eagles. (word travels fast in the valley.) I asked if he would mind walking the dog home, too. 

He was happy to. Thank goodness

I took Birdy back upstairs and threw up a prayer that she'd nap despite not having her usual sound machine running in the room.

I pulled the blinds, closed the curtains and laid her down in her crib. 

I walked outside and flopped down in the chair, sweaty, wishing I'd showered that morning, and run the dishwasher, and done a load of laundry, and wondered what work I could possibly accomplish around the house that would involve absolutely zero noise in order to keep the baby sleeping.

There was a loud hum, and the lights came back on. 

But, alas, the day has only since improved. I have showered. The baby has napped. The girls have plowed through some school work. My kitchen is clean. And I have even managed to squeak in a four o'clock cup of coffee (which I'll probably regret later) and a few things ticked off my to-do list. 

Things are good.

it's all about the egg

Maybe it's like childbirth. How we conveniently forget the pain, the contractions. And somehow we find ourselves happily going through it all over again. 

That must be what was happening when I decided to do the "chicks in the bathroom" thing again. 

The chickens have launched a complete take over of the downstairs bathroom. The large green plastic tub that was formerly their home just wasn't cutting it and appparently unlike their mild-mannered predecessors, it wasn't enough space.

Every time I, heaven forbid, had to use the downstairs bathroom for its intended purpose, I had to first remove a roosting chick or two from the seat of the toilet. (a down toilet seat, of course.) Within seconds of plopping them back in their home there would be another, jumping at my thigh or flapping up to the edge of the box.

That's when it occured to me that we could give them the whole back corner of the bathroom. Which means, I guess that I'm the one responsible for the take over. And perhaps this also means that maybe it is a good thing that this little bathroom never saw a minute of remodeling work. 

So I called Dan at work and asked if he could finagle some sort of barrier, he said it wouldn't be hard and by nightfall they had the run of  the place. 

Yesterday afternoon, Emma had a friend over and the mom stopped in to see the chicks. She's curious about the whole process and thinking of trying her hand with chickens.

She leaned over the large plywood barrier, looking at the chickens running willy-nilly on my bathroom floor which is now covered with both a tarp and layer of shavings..."Now, what is the advantage to getting chicks instead of older hens that are ready to go out in the coop?"

Huh. Good question.

It's fun? They were cute for three days before they started to get their pin feathers? They'll be tamer when we put them outside? I like the way they make my whole downstairs smell like a chicken coop? It gives my children something to do while they're on the potty? Life was getting boring and I needed a little something to fill all my free time?

Well, really. It's not that bad. At least not all the time. 

There is enjoyment in the process. Like it or not, we are becoming attached to these six feathered characters taking up residence in our bathroom. 

And some day these girls will begin to give back. We just have to keep our eyes on the egg.