Years ago, either while I was in college, or just after I graduated, my father started raising chickens. I thought he was nuts. My mother hated the birds, and wouldn't go near them. Every time I visited, he'd unload a few dozen eggs on me, even though I didn't particularly like eggs, and my cholesterol level went up for the first time in my life. They were amazing! But still... the guy was nuts. It was Cape Cod - nobody had chickens in suburban Cape Cod. I was convinced that he wanted to be labelled a redneck.
Fast-forward many years, and I'm at the 4-H fair with my two daughters, maybe 5 and 7 at the time. I was in 4-H as a kid, and loved it, but livestock was NOT something I was into! Now, normal kids fall in love with the fuzzy little bunnies and the cavies, right? Not my kids. The younger one leaves the fair all excited that there was a bearded dragon in the exotic animals booth. She wants a lizard. I like lizards, maybe this is doable, assuming the cat doesn't eat it... The older kid, however, had had a chance to hold a tiny black hen. (Looking back, I'm sure it was a bantam, but who knows what breed. I didn't know anything about chickens - maybe that they didn't look like turkeys or ducks.) She announces that the only thing that will EVER make her happy is having a little black chicken. If only she could have The Dream Chicken, life would be worth living. I say, "Yeah, tell your father that. He'll say no even quicker than I did."
And wouldn't you know... the guy who doesn't even like my cat decides that building a coop/SHED would be a fun project. And having to take care of living things would teach this heretofore irresponsible child a sense of responsibility. It was brilliant!
I was aghast. You KNOW who's going to be taking care of the chickens, right? (*)
Now it's a few years later, and we have 9 chickens, including a rooster who wasn't supposed to be male. I take care of the chickens, with a fair amount of help from my younger daughter (the older one just likes to take pictures of them). Three of our nine chickens are black, "The Dream Chickens", if you include the WCBP rooster. There are stuffed animal chickens, chicken pictures, and chicken statues all over the house and yard. I am responsible for most of these items being here. I spend hours every week just sitting quietly with the birds, sometimes with my laptop going. I dread having to go away for a few days because I won't see my chickens. I miss them when I have to go to the office, instead of working from home. My friends think I'm a freak. They call me the Crazy Chicken Lady. But they don't say no to a gift of eggs, now, do they? They've been my kids' first exposure to death and grieving, but also new life and hope. They bring us joy and amusement, and frustration, and sometimes those moments of "what the hell am I doing this for?". So glad I didn't just end up with a lizard... though there is still time...
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(*) When the first birds were a week or so old, I snuck into the basement in the middle of the night to check the temperature in the cage. I didn't want to wake them up, so I crept down the stairs by only the light of the heat lamp. I missed a stair and went flying. Broke my left foot clean in half. Screamed for help, none came, and I had to drag myself up the stairs on my knees. Yet, even while in a cast for 3 weeks and on crutches for another 8, I butt-bumped my way up and down those stairs every day to make sure they were warm enough, had food and water, a clean cage... So much for having an 8-year-old as your primary caregiver!