Raising chickens and practicing politics

I looked at my seven ladies this fine June morning as they rolled around in the dirt. They do this everyday, the dirt rolling thing. Dust bathing, it’s called. Why would someone roll around in the dirt in order to get clean? I am completely flummoxed by it. And yet it looked so familiar…wait, I have seen this before. The strutting, the crowing, the rolling in dirt and pretending your feathers are clean.

Aha! Raising chickens is just like working with politicians. I have come to realize they not only go hand in hand, the practice of one is necessary to perfect the other. That is to say, if you want to be a political mover and shaker, you need to get your hands in some chicken shit on a daily basis.

That’s nasty, you say. Who would want to work with politicians day after day? Well, I say raising a chicken or three is a good way to hone your political skills. Love a good political argument? Relish going up against someone who has the audacity to not agree with your superior intellect? Try your hand at arguing with a politician or a chicken…you’ll get the same, glassy-eyed stare back with either opponent.

Chickens are excellent judges of character. With the help of a hen, understanding the depth of a political candidate would be a breeze. Next time you’re headed to a candidate meet-and-greet, take along a hen, hand it to the politician and see how she (the chicken,that is) reacts. Chicken looks sedate and relaxed? Good, solid candidate. Chicken is struggling and dropping large poop pellets all over the candidate? Have to wonder if this guy can handle a third world dictator if he can’t keep a pullet happy.

Getting something from a chicken requires patience and a seductive hand. They like to be stroked on the back and hand-fed corn. They like to have their own space where they can stretch out, preen, and pretend no other hens are around while they get to the business of producing your breakfast. They don’t like to be rushed, and just when you think your flock is about to lay a whole bunch of eggs, you realize it was all noise, and in fact, they’ve done nothing at all.

Not at all dissimilar to the work required to get your law enacted. One must stroke the politicians’ ego. Tell them they are so very pretty and will produce sweet legislation. They will squawk and strut, leading you to believe that yes, soon the most lovely of new laws will arrive. Hopeful and expectant, you wait. But, like cackle from hens that live in many a backyard, what you hear being foretold is not always what you get. The charming new law never comes to fruition and, sigh, you are back where you started—dealing with chicken shit.

Because I said so

Yesterday it was a steamy 93 degrees. Today it is a blustery 59 degrees. Certainly a large drop in temperature, but not a truly dramatic, "Day After Tomorrow" kind of temp drop. My children would tell you otherwise. Combine the need to get to school a little earlier than usual--like 5 minutes, not an hour--and the suddenly arctic temperature, and all hell breaks loose in the coop.

"It's ffrreeezzzing outside," A tells me, as she stands on the deck wearing a t-shirt while I brave the cold to feed the chickens. "Yes, it's a little cooler. But it wouldn't be so cold if you wore more than a t-shirt outside." She returns, wrapped in a blanket, dragging it on the ground so as to cover her much shorter brother who has emerged from the house and is standing beside her. "I'm still cold." Attention children of the coop, there's this new invention. It's called a house. Go in it. Leave me alone to throw kibble at the bantams.

"Will it snow today?" No, it will not snow today. "But it's cold." It's not THAT cold. "Do I need long-sleeves?" Yes, you need long-sleeves. "Should I wear my parka?" No, you do not need your parka. "But I was cold on the deck." That's because you were wearing only a t-shirt and my once-nice blanket. It's now covered in dog hair and leaves because you made a toga out of it and wore it on the deck. "So, should I wear a parka?" NO. "Why are you yelling at us" I'm not yelling! Oh for God's sake wear the damn parka. "No, I don't think I really need it."

You all need to hurry up, I sweetly tell my offspring. "Why," queries A. Because you have to be at school a little earlier for rehearsal. "Oh, where are my clothes?" In your room, on the steps to your loft. 20 minutes elapse. Sweetie, you need to hurry, we need to leave in 5 minutes. "Oh, where are my clothes?" No response from Mom. "Moooommm, where are my clothes?" Sweetie, darling, sweetie darling. You said you didn't like me yelling, so I'm not responding. "Oh, is this them on the steps?"

We arrive at school with moments to spare. "I'm cold." You'll warm up once you get moving. "But I'm cold now! I wish I'd worn my parka! Why wouldn't you let me wear my parka??!" I shove, I mean gently nudge them into the school. The last words I hear from them, "Why is it so durn hot in this building?" Good thing you didn't wear your parka.

Impending Doom

Earthquakes, a hurricane bearing down on us. What's next, locusts? I didn't feel the earthquake and I'm not sold on this hurricane thing. Afterall, I had an aunt named Irene and she was batty. The idea that she could plan five days out for anything, much less the devastation of the Eastern Seaboard is ludicrous.

But the ladies--all seven of them--seem to think something is up. Rarely do they run for the coop earlier than a minute to sunset, and never do the little ones cuddle with the older ladies. But running and cuddling they are, in the middle of the day. The four-month-old chicks were pushed up against the four-year-old hen, and the Polish Crested was attempting to get between the two bantams--a daring feat in itself since they hate to be separated from one another.

So, we shall see. A case of animal foretelling or just crazy hens? I'm hoping for the latter.

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.