New Snow

We woke up to an inch of snow and another break from school. Finley and Joe rushed to get coats and hats on, then headed out to experience the snow and check on the new chicks housed in the shop.

A few minutes later, in came Finley, with tears in her eyes and a limp, yellow chick cupped in her hands. "What can we do?" she asked me.

"There's not much we can do. I'm not sure what's wrong with it. Sometimes they just don't develop the way they're supposed to and don't make it. Do you want to keep holding it?" I asked. She nodded. I could tell by the look on her face she didn't want to give up on it yet.

Every once in a while, it would chirp and loll it's head a little. As I stroked its fuzzy little body, I noticed a bumpy, hard lump at its throat. Not long ago, my brother had a chicken sick with an impacted crop. He nursed it back to health by massaging it neck (and who knows what else). Maybe that's what was wrong with this little one.

We put a few drop of water to its beak, and it seemed to drink them eagerly, so we dipped its beak in the water and let it drink as much as it wanted. Eventually, it stopped, so at Joe's suggestion, I got out the hot water bottle to keep it warm.

  We tried to massage its neck, but it seemed so tiny and delicate, I worried we would hurt it. It slowly lessened its movements, then eventually just lay there, opening and closing its beak in silent chirps. Several minutes later, I watched as it half opened its eyes and pulled its head back in one final throe of death.

"I think it's gone," I told Finley. She picked it up and examined it, the tears welling up in her eyes. And it took everything I had to keep from laughing.

It reminded me of when my kids were infants, crying their little lungs out, the hurt so evident. Your heart breaks for their pain, but at the same time, it seems so very funny. If only they could see how inconsequential this thing is in the scope of what life will be.

Oh, how I love my daughter's tender heart! It reminds me to keep looking for the balance. We tend toward extremes. Some need to be reminded that death is necessary for life, and others treat life so callously...

Without a word, Finley went outside, found a shovel, dug a little hole, and buried the chick out in the yard, surrounded by the beauty of new snow.

Snow Day #6

All day yesterday, I kept daydreaming about taking the kids to school in the morning, then coming home to an empty house. I was going to enjoy another cup of coffee in  the quiet before I put on some music my kids would not approve of and turn it up to a loud volume. I would relish in cleaning up the kitchen, knowing that it would stay clean for at least four or five hours. Then, a trip to the grocery store (all by myself)! After groceries were put away, more loud music would accompany further housecleaning. It was going to be glorious.

Between illnesses and snow days, I have had two and a half weeks of constant interaction with other human beings. This morning, when I woke up to find that a millimeter of frozen rain caused yet another cancellation of school, my introverted self started to (inwardly) writhe and wail in disappointment and agony.

I have since taken several deep breaths, and have acknowledged that, yes, I can make it through one more day. Melodrama over.

Iced In

We were hoping for a pile of snow Sunday night, but instead, we got ice. Chris had a busy week planned at work, but stayed home. He thought about getting out this morning to help a friend with a downed tree, but couldn't even get down the driveway.

Icicles were hanging off Beefy, but he wouldn't let me get a good shot.

 I always think it's funny to see the chickens standing on one leg, trying to keep at least one foot warm.

I took Joe and Z over to the neighbor's pasture yesterday to go sledding, the freezing rain making for a faster ride than fluffy snow. We had to dodge the rocks and frozen cow pies, but they had fun, so we went back again this morning. Finley decided to come along this time. All was well, until Joe caught some air off a clump of grass and landed on his shoulder. My tailbone is also feeling the effects from the rough rides.

And in other news, Z is growing up. Last weekend, she decided to start making PB&Js all on her own. The a few days later, she lost her second top-front tooth, the first one already growing in at a crazy angle. It didn't bother me when she went off to Kindergarten a year and a half ago, but for some reason, this week left me feeling sentimental. 

The Closet

Somehow or other, I just spent the last ten minutes of my life contemplating the sometimes-silent 'n' in the word 'damnation' and all its derivatives. The English language both awes and irritates me.

There are other things that awe and irritate me. The quantity of my husband's clothes is one of those things. There is no good reason for a man who's standard outfit is a t-shirt and jeans with the occasional flannel to own as many clothes as he does. But we all have to put up with some of our loved-one's quirks, don't we?

When we lived in the trailer, almost all of his clothes were piled haphazardly on shelves and other random things in the cave of a walk-in closet we had. The door was kept shut, and I was able to ignore it. Because I didn't have to see it, the only thing that really bothered me was that one of my favorite shirts of his was lost in that mass of chaos. Every once in a while (maybe once a year), he would rummage through his clothes and "reorganize" them, but the navy blue t-shirt with the cool tractor printed on the back never seemed to surface.

When we moved into the house, our closets were not built out yet, so the pile moved into the corner of our bedroom where it sat and taunted me daily. Although the kitchen cabinets still lacked painted doors, I decided the pile of clothes had to be dealt with, and I began work on the closet. We finally got it finished a couple days ago. Most of his clothes have been moved to the closet, a bin of sentimental clothes was moved to storage, and I can actually vacuum the carpet in the corner of the room where the pile lived.

Design inspired by our neighbor, Terry

Now all we need are doors so that if he musses up my neat stacks, I won't go crazy.