It was time to do the deed. Out of the first 12 chicks, 8 were obvious roos. The girls weren't yet laying, but boy, were those boys were boyish. It was like a choir of stepped on cats. Plus, I had volunteered to help with a breeding project, and would be taking in a roo who needed to be head honcho. Tonight was the night, and the neighbor was coming to walk us through the first processing. I was pumped. I was prepared. I had set everything out with an OCD precision which screamed, "I have mixed feelings about this!" My husband was sure I couldn't. I would show him: not only could I, but there would be no girly sniveling. I was sure my husband wouldn't. I know his aloof attitude hides a deep, dark, intense need to cuddle the pretty birdies. THEN the baby-sitter bailed. I was sure the DH would wuss out, but he surprised me. He offered to process with the neighbor while I took the baby and our 3-year-old one-man PETA parade to grandpa's house for the evening. Perhaps the thought of handling two small children was more frightening. I'll never know, because I am sure he'll never tell. On the way to Grandpa's, I would pick up our new additions: two older hens, the breeder roo, and a few "reject" chicks. It was a lovely evening at Grandpa's. We were home before 8pm, with everyone asleep before the van hit the freeway. My husband greeted us in the driveway, and with puffed out chest declared, "I am man, hear me roar!" He unloaded the munchkins, then helped me with the new additions to the flock. As he pulled the hens from the carrier, he found a single, perfect egg. "Does it count?" he asks. "I don't know," I muse. "It isn't really our egg." Into the incubator it went. In one night I had my first processing... which I didn't participate in, and my first egg...which didn't count.