These are a few of my favorite things....

First, I love that song. Somewhere along the way it became a Christmas song, which makes me love it even more. Even though my husband completely dismisses its Christmasness, and adamantly refuses to put it on his annual Christmas cd.

But reminiscing about the Sound of Music is not the point of little soliloquy. After my weekly group get together where we discuss all the disappointments, trials, tribulations and heart-wrenching moments of our childhoods, I can get a little blue. Focusing on those who done you wrong tends to do that to a person. And as I began to further wallow in my wounded psyche, one of my truly favorite songs came on. The song that makes my daughter run screaming to my room to tell me it's on. The one that makes my oh-so-proper husband roll his eyes. Yes, you all know it...the F.U.N. song by Sponge Bob Squarepants. This lifts me from my funk...but I like the part Plankton sings. "F is fire that burns down the village, U is for uranium bomb, N is for no survivors!" I'm convinced the Sponge Bob writers stuck that one in there for over-caffeinated, sleep-deprived parents who are tired of the vapid lyrics to which we were subjected while our children watched Dragon Tales. Don't get me wrong, I love me some Dragon Tales, but there just so many times I can hear about how it's great to be me...in Spanish.

Another top ten hit--finding out that my son's hearing loss was due to the disgustingly enormous hunks o'wax that had wormed their way down into his ear canal. But I clean his ears!, I said. Really, I do. He has waxy ears, they say. He'll need to have them cleaned out periodically to avoid this happening again. This, I can do. So I thumb my nose--I'd rather raise my middle finger--to the teacher last year who said my sweet little boy never paid attention. He has enormous hunks of wax, I'll tell her. No, maybe not. Then she'll start saying I'm a bad mother. Maybe I'll start a vicious rumor about her. Yeah, that's productive. But oh so satisfying.

Not too far down the list is that the chickens are now regular egg producers. One even consistently lays double yolkers. I swear the first one was twice the size of a store bought egg. I cannot even imagine how that one felt coming out. Can we all say ouch? I'm worried about them tonight, though, because we're expecting another "gully washer" as my grandmother used to say. I have reinforced their little red barn with gravel in hopes of avoiding the coop flood.

Last, but certainly not least is the fact that finally, finally, finally it appears that Sarah Palin is beginning to lose her luster. Not going into just how many ways she annoys, frightens, terrifies me. But she has nothing to do with my hens or children, so I will try not think of her. Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts.

Here chicky, chicky

Finally, finally, finally the chickens have begun to lay eggs! Dear husband has returned to the garage with his chicken cooker, and another day will dawn for the five ladies living in my backyard. And I will have fried eggs for breakfast. Have to admit to a slight twinge of guilt for eating the young of my youngest's chicken. But I got over it when I sank my teeth into the delicate fluff that was the white of the lightly fried egg. mmmm...eggs.

Chicken-chicken (my son had naming rights to that chicken) is the first to produce eggs. They are a delicate olive-blue shade, and she looked at me like "what the heck are you doing?" when I removed the egg from her nest. I think she actually felt a maternal beckoning; perhaps a sense of loss at the removal of the egg she worked so hard to produce? But I don't think it lasted long. Within moments of giving birth she was wandering around the chicken run digging for grubs. Unlike me who, moments after giving birth, was still lying on my back, feet in the air and a man between my legs saying "wow, that one is going to take some stitching." Thanks for the kind words. Just when exactly was the last time you pushed a large living being out of your nether regions?

So I will not feel guilty anymore when I go out to my coop at 0'dark thirty and carefully, quietly lift the egg door to see if my breakfast has been prepared for me. No, I will revel in the fact that someone else in our little household knows the bliss that is giving birth. Of course, no one came along and ate my baby. But a few grubs should help Chicken-chicken get past all that.

Hanna who?

The forecast was for significant rain and high winds. The hubby was out of town and we had let the kids watch Twister one too many times. Their irrational fear of flying cows was getting out of hand. So we fired up Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and gorged ourselves on oatmeal raisin cookies. And I waited for the storm.

And waited. Finally (well, not finally...that sounds like an overdue and wanted guest), eventually she arrived. In the middle of the night as the children slept, the rain came down. A LOT of rain. Nearly 6 inches to be exact. But, thankfully, very little wind. A gust or two here and there, but not the tree uprooting gusts we had been warned to expect. So my stashing of the lawn furniture was for naught.

But my coop securing could have used some improvement. The coop flooded. Five shivering chickens were huddled together on the top roost when I ventured out there at 7:41 am. Three inches of water stood on the saturated dirt--now mud--coop floor. They were not happy. About as pissed off as I have ever seen a chicken. Hence the saying madder than a wet hen.

They're happier now. The rain has stopped. The wind is dying down. The sun is attempting to emerge from behind the clouds. But everytime I go out to the coop the big chicken--Hattie--gives me the stink eye. As if to say you're a bad chicken mommy. This'll probably set back their egg laying for at least a month. Anyone up for chicken and dumplings?

Can you hear me now?

Took the boy into the doctor this morning. We've been thinking he couldn't hear...he wouldn't answer sometimes and his teachers have said he doesn't pay attention. So I ran him in to the peds office just to see. Turns out he failed the hearing test. Not can't hear a little, maybe some fluid in his ear. Flat out can't hear the test beeps. I could hear the beeps with the tester in his ear. It was that loud. He couldn't hear it at all. So he is headed to the ENT next week. Needless to say...I'm worried.



The thought of my sweet little boy not being able to hear me say I love you breaks my heart into tiny shards. I've felt like a huge wet blanket has been on my head all day long. He asks what's wrong; I tell him it's nothing. Mommy's worried about the storm (which I am), but not as she is about your little ears.

crack open the eggs...

Okay, so this is my first blog post. Normally I'm more loquacious (nice SAT word!) than I'll probably be tonight. Seems I'm pmsing and not feeling up to par. Plus the RNC is going on and that alone puts me in a bad mood. Large groups of Republicans set me on edge. But to introduce myself to the blogging world...I have two wonderful kids, a terrific husband, I drink too much coffee and my chicken coop houses five chickens who have yet to lay one egg between them. My hope is they will pop one out in the next few weeks or my dear husband will follow through on plans to cook one of them. He claims this will set an example for the others...produce or die. Kind of a publish or perish for poultry I guess.

It's my plan to post something new every few days or so. We'll see how that goes. Hopefully not like my knitting--the needles are stuffed in a closet, along with numerous skeins of wool. So for now I'm off to help the eldest child with her homework...I think I need to focus on it a little better. She's supposed to be coming up with words that have short vowels in them and all I can think of are swear words. I'm sure that would merit a call from the principal. But I bet it would get me that bad girl rep I've always wanted. hmmm...words with a short i or a short u. Yeah, I need more coffee.