Counting the Days

Don't get me wrong. I love my family.

But there still four and a half days left before the kids go back to school, Chris has a job scheduled, and I might actually get some desperately-needed solitude.

I could tell on Christmas Eve-Eve that I had reached my limit. We purchased tickets that day to the new Star Wars movie the next morning, and the thought of a few hours to myself sounded blissful. I threw out the idea to Chris that maybe I should stay home. "You really ought to come," he said. And against my better judgement, I let him talk me into it. That night, we had the kids downstairs with us late into the night due to tornado warnings, and I woke up the next morning tired and with a headache.

We piled into the van to head to the movie theater, and a mile away from the house, Chris started talking. "Please," I told him. "I really don't want to have to talk or listen to anyone for a while." And then I put Beck's Morning Phase on and stared out the window.

I am understanding more and more what I need to keep my introverted self mentally stable and happy. Having a minimum of three people in constant need of communication and attention in the sixteen-plus hours of the waking day for two and a half weeks straight is not what I need.

Four and a half days.

Oh, Henrietta!

I came up this concept way back when Joe was a baby, and I think the idea sat in my head for a year before I started putting it down on paper. Fast forward eight years or so, and this thing haunts me. A bizarre mash-up of art, comic strip, and/or children's book for adults, there's no real place for this. Going through the hassle and cost of printing it up seemed a bit much, but I wanted to be able to share it. So here it is in all it's glory:

Oh, Henrietta!

(When you click on the link, be prepared to hit the pause button. That will allow you to page through the slideshow at your own pace.)

November Begins

The leaves have mostly fallen, and the sky is dreary again today. I am sending pleas up into the heavens for a few more warm, sunny days. I have some bush-hogging I would like to finish up before cold, soggy, dead grass becomes a constant. The few nice days we've had recently have been taken up by other pressing chores and business matters.

Joe went out the first of the month with his BB gun to shoot at birds. He had done this on several occasions in the past, and though I don't like the idea of anyone killing random, innocent birds, it didn't worry me too much. I figured the chances of him hitting a bird with a tiny, 1/8" ball were slim to none. Apparently, it's a kid's job to prove their parents wrong. He hit one. And although, the BB didn't appear to penetrate the skin, the impact most have done damage, because it died. It was a cute, little gray and white bird. I will spare you the photos. Joe promised me he wouldn't shoot any more.

Last Thursday, I had gone to pick Z up from school and had dropped her off at my mom's for her piano lesson while Joe and Fin were still at school for Melody Maker practice. I was pulling into the driveway when I got this text from Chris:

Bad news. Isadora is not doing too well. She's lying down in the chicken coop. You better go see her before she dies.

Isadora is our oldest chicken that I named after my grandmother. She is the only one left from the first batch of chicks we raised. She had seemed fine the day or two before, but here she was, tucked into a nesting box in the middle of the day. She wouldn't eat and she wouldn't drink and she could barely hold her head up. When I picked the kids up an hour later (after I had a good cry), I gave them the news. The kids debated what we should do. Z suggested we cover her with a blanket. Finley wanted to put her out of her misery if she wasn't better in a couple days. Joe thought we should keep her alive so that we could have more memories of her.

The next day, she was worse. I could only tell she was alive by the slight movement of her body as she breathed in and out.

Saturday morning, I went out to check on her, expecting to find her dead. I opened the door to the coop to find the nesting box empty. Great, I thought. Some critter got in and snatched her. Or maybe she wandered off to die beneath the trees. But there she was in the chicken run, a little shaky on her feet, but looking for food. I made her some scrambled eggs and a mash of yogurt and bread crumbs.

Later that evening, I related my shock at her recovery to the family at the dinner table. "Never give up hope," they admonished. And so she is getting stronger day by day, looking just a little worse for the wear.

Sunday. I wandered by the old water trough I am using as a planter, and noticed an odd little shape in the dirt. Looking closer, I discovered it was a baby box turtle. Turns out, one of the turtles we held in there over the summer must have laid an egg or two (we found the shell in the dirt), and this little one actually hatched! She's hardly bigger than a quarter, and we are all enamored with her.

 I'm so thankful for things like this that infuse life with joy and wonder when the rest of it seems harder than normal.

And in the spirit of a never-dying hope, I bought some 2 gallon pots of blueberries and grapes that were on deep discount at Tractor Supply today. Time will expand and give me the chance to plant them somewhere before it freezes.

Busy, Busy

It's official. Bluebird is a state-licensed low-voltage contractor. After several months of headache and confusion and paperwork and money thrown here and there, we are eligible to put bids in on major projects and pull permits for whatever jobs we win.

I also got our business cards in the mail, and they look awesome. The website needs help, but whatever. One thing at a time.

In the meantime, there has been plenty of work to keep us busy, and it's all I can do to keep everyone fed and clothed and make sure the kids won't flunk out of school. (I am being a little over-dramatic, but it sure feels as stressful as I'm making it sound some days.)

We have been trying to plan a yard sale for months, but it keeps getting pushed back due to weather. Tomorrow looks promising, so Chris is planning to slap it together come hell or high water.

Things on the farm remain. Daisy got so worked up a few days ago when the neighbor's cows and donkeys wandered back into the pasture next to her that she flat-out jumped the fence. I retrieved her some time later after the pack of animals wandered (or was chased) back to their pond. Tired from all the excitement, she plopped down in the shade of a tree and let the livestock graze in peace. She (thankfully) hasn't jumped the fence since, but I expect she will again.

We had one Granny Smith apple grow on our trees this year, and Finley and I ate it today. The skin was covered in black stuff, but the insides were good.

I am sure there is more to write about, but duty calls... Until next time, whenever that will be.

Tearin' Down the Trailer

There are few things in life that give a person as much satisfaction as tearing something apart.

Chris got a bee under his bonnet and with minor help from me, emptied the trailer of the last of the junk we accumulated in the 4+ years we lived in it. (Side note- leather molds faster than other materials.)

So this week, we started pulling out the fixtures, letting the kids knock a few holes in the walls, and gutting the place.

I must say, while were living in the trailer, not once did I see a brown recluse. There were other spiders that were smaller, wispy, ghost-like versions of daddy-long-legs that were forever building invisible webs in the corners. Those I didn't mind. But since we've moved out, the brown recluses must have sensed the abandonment and are EVERYWHERE. Most of them are small enough for me to squish with my fingers, but when I pulled down a light fixture to find this big, juicy one (the photo doesn't do it justice), I nearly pooped my pants. 

 I mustered up some courage, managed to knock it onto the floor with a screw drivers, then stomped it flat.

Still have a ways to go, but I'm hoping by the time cold weather sets in, we'll have a new, prettier view out our living room windows.

A (Sort of) Quiet Afternoon

I got a phone call a little after 9:30 this morning from the school. "Joe isn't running a fever, but he says he feels like he's going to throw up," the voice on the other end of the line said. He had been complaining before school that he wasn't feeling well, but after eating some breakfast and using the rest room, I thought he would be okay. I was wrong. I walked through the front door of the school seconds after he had spewed a watery mess all over their new, clean floor. "Good timing," the lady behind the desk told me. How true. I walked out with a pale, miserable Joe, thankful that the custodian at the school was dealing with his vomit instead of me. And now Joe is nestled on the couch, trash can close at hand, watching Stampy play video games. ( I will never understand....)

In other kid news, Joe tried out for Melody Makers, the singing group at school, and made it. Finley is learning to play the flute and is excited to march in the homecoming parade tomorrow.

 Zivah has learned to tie her shoes. To have your youngest master this last skill of basic self-sufficiency feels epic.

Out on the farm, Daisy has miraculously stayed in her yard for the past three days. After discovering that she could climb a section of fence last weel, I tried for days to alter the fence so that she couldn't climb out. The fence had been pushed over by years of livestock, and the angle was just enough that she could scale the corner. First, I tried to string barbed-wire over the corner, but she wiggled through, ignoring the scratches to her belly. Next, I used the tractor to pull the t-post upright, but somehow, she still was able to climb the wrinkled fence. Finally, I straightened things up a bit more and cut out a sapling that was growing in the fence. I don't know if the sapling was some sort of psychological support for Daisy, but she gave up climbing and has redirected her energies to digging holes.

 I cleaned the coop out today. Chris's decision to lay laminate flooring in there was a stroke of genius. After using the manure fork to get the big bits, the rest is easily cleaned up with a square point shovel. The chickens will thank me tonight when they breathe in that clean, fresh-hay air.

 The fifteen chicks one hen hatched out early last month are gone. We suspect a hawk and a weasel teamed up to annihilate them all, and in a matter of three or four day, they all disappeared. Well, all except for the three I found in various stages of manglement in the little coop.

At least Isadora still lives on. Though her head-feathers could use a good shampooing.

It's a Rainy Day In August

So much for the mowing and weed eating I was planning on doing today. It has been raining off and on for the past five or six days. Seems strange for August. But, really, the only complaint I have is that it stopped Chris from installing the water softener in the pump house over the weekend.

I don't think Chris really meant it to work out this way, but we bought a dishwasher for our anniversary. We've been married for thirteen years, and for all that time, have never had a dishwasher. I take that back. We had one for a short while when we moved to the farm, but we never used it. It took up vital cabinet space in the trailer, and I really didn't want the water-spotted dishes I was sure would be the result of using it.

Anyway, last week sometime, Chris came home from work and noticed a large, two-day pile of dishes filling the sink and counter tops. "Maybe it's time we get a dishwasher," he said. He expected the normal resistance, I'm sure. In the past, I always argued that a dishwasher was something we didn't need, and spending a chunk of money on something we didn't need seemed unwise. But I had just spent the day jumping through hoops and trying to figure out what other hoops I was supposed to jump through in order to get my new business up and running, and housework wasn't anything I was focused on. "Okay," I said. A dishwasher sounded nice right then.

So, although Chris got the dishwasher installed over the weekend, I am not using it yet. I still don't want water-spotted dishes, and the water softener that we bought last fall still need to be installed. This weekend looks more promising.

August 20th already.

The kids started the first week of August. This is the picture of their first day, eyes puffy with lack of sleep.

Two days before school was scheduled to start, we took a trip to Lake Winnie, an amusement park in Chattanooga. Reanna came and spent the night so we could get an early start the next morning.

 This is one my favorite pictures from the day. Last year, Z wasn't tall enough for the crazier rides, but this time, she was. So for her second ride, I took her on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Inspite of her initial reaction, she loved it, but, truth be told, I didn't. For the first time in my life, I almost threw up after a ride, and it took a good while for my stomach to settle back down.

 The next weekend was Mark's birthday, and the family came out for some fun at the farm. Mark brought down his new little drone, and promptly lost it in the tops of some trees. He and Mike spent a good while plunging through the woods in search of it, until Mike, using his innate MacGyver skills, located the tree it was in. I climbed a 28 foot ladder up into the tree, then scaled a little higher. I still couldn't see the drone, but once I gave the tree a good shake, it fell to the ground.

Next came fun on two wheels.

Joe and Robert are naturals. I can see them winning motocross races someday. 

But when it came time for the girls to ride, I was incredibly nervous as Finley's motor skills aren't as keen as the boys'. Thankfully, my brother is an excellent and careful teacher, and the girls were soon zipping around like they had been riding  motorbikes for months.

 In other news, mama chicken and her babies are doing well. Two of the chicks died, but the rest are doing well. I think there are fifteen in all, but they are incredibly hard to count, as is evidenced by the blurry photo.

 With the kids back in school, and the majority of business stuff out of the way for the moment, I had time to take on another project. Jane, our rabbit, has been cooped up in a small hutch for over a month. I had used her cage to house some chickens for a while, and now that those chickens are gone, I needed to get it ready for her to move back in. The tarp I had used for shelter was shredded, so I had planned to take the metal sheeting off an old truck topper to make a sturdier, longer-lasting shelter for Jane. I got it half finished yesterday before incoming rain forced me to stop.

While dismantling the old topper, I noticed some strange patterns in the algae covering old plastic-bubble windows. Apparently some worm or larva had been feasting on the algae, leaving something strangely beautiful... a little reminder to slow down in all the busyness to take notice.

Just Do It

If I had a hundred dollars for every time the "I need a vehicle that seats seven or eight, but I don't want a minivan" post showed up on facebook, I could probably afford the 4WD Suburban I'd rather drive than a minivan.

It reminds me a bit of the struggle I have with my kids over food- my son in particular. He doesn't like any food at all that is actually good for him. I caught him making "cinnamon toast" yesterday. He had already made one piece and was working on the second. The bread was toasted, the butter applied, and then came the sugar. I watched as he started pouring sugar over the toast, his face determined, his hand steady, and he kept pouring, the sugar starting to pile into a small mountain range.

I get it. Sugar is yummy. But come on, kid. Sometimes you have to eat your vegetables even if you don't like them. You just have to.

So, all you moms and dads out there with young kids. I understand. You don't like minivans. I don't either. But eventually, we all have to grow up and eat our vegetables. Maybe the reason you eat them is because you realize all the health benefits that vegetable possesses, and so you throw it in your smoothie and find a way to eat it, even though you don't like the taste or texture. And sometimes, when you try a vegetable, you find you actually kind of like it!

So for whatever reason you don't like minivans, think of it this way. Owning a minivan is a message to the world that you are willing to sacrifice your ideal vehicle for family and friends. That ought to be something to be proud of. And if it makes you feel better, slap a bumper sticker on it that says, "I'd rather be driving a _________."

Mother Hen

Mama's babies started hatching yesterday. It took me by surprise, since it didn't seem like 3 weeks had passed since she started sitting.

Last night there were only two: a pale silvery yellow chick, and a darker tan and brown.

This morning, when I went out to check, I could count nine babies lined up in front of Mama, looking out at the world.

This afternoon, it looks like two must have fallen out of the nesting box, so Mama is on the ground protecting them, while the rest (at least eleven!) sit up in the nest wondering what to do.

There is already a mother hen on the scene, but I can't help feel like a secondary mother hen, worrying over the whole brood.

Rockstar

Every evening, I go out to lock the birds up for the night. As we have had coyote and fox sightings in the area this year, I figure the best way to keep our free-ranging chickens as safe as possible is to put them up in the coop early in the evening and not let them out until late morning. That way, during the prime hunting times of dusk and dawn, the chickens won't be available for the taking.

Sometimes, when I walk out to the coop after supper, the chickens see me heading that way, and crowd around me like an entourage. I ignore the fact that they really aren't running alongside me just for food and pretend instead that I am some one very important. They all adore me and are more than willing to fly in front of that bullet if need be.

Other times, the chickens are out of sight. they may be taking refuge in the shade of the deck or bathing in the dust behind the trailer, and don't realize it is feeding (and bed) time. The benefit of not having my entourage is that I can walk without the fear of feathered trip-hazards. Once I am at the coop, I ring the Funny-Farm-Chicken-Dinner-Bell. We keep the scratch in a 20 gallon metal trash can right outside the coop. When I bang the lid on the top of the trash can, it makes a lovely clanging sound. All it take is a clang or two, and the chickens come running from all over the farm. A scoop of scratch through into the run, and the chickens file inside. Then I lock the doors and head back to the house.

There are always a few chickens that don't make it into the big coop at night. Our gray rooster, Slick, knows better than to get into an enclosed space with the big, ruddy alpha-roo. Most nights, Pecker and a black hen or two decide to stick by Slick and roost in the stable. One black hen is currently sitting on a clutch of eggs, so I don't expect her to show. The one chicken I never expect to see is Rockstar.

Rockstar is my one of my favorite chickens. If it weren't for the fact that Isadora has (undeservedly) won my heart with her bouncy, white Afro and screechy brashness, Rockstar would take the cake. Like polar opposites, these two are. You always know when Isadora is near- her voice is like nails on a chalkboard; Rockstar might well be mute for all I know. Isadora boldly roams all over the farm like a queen; Rockstar is a little homebody, never wandering more than 50 feet away from the stable, always sticking close to the house.

And because of that, Rockstar is the last hen I would expect to get nabbed by a predator.

A few nights ago, I had locked the birds up and collected eggs from the big coop. All but Rockstar and the sitting black hen had come that night. And so I walked over to the stable to check the other nesting box for eggs and make sure the black hen and Rockstar were alright. The black hen was settled onto her nest in the stable, but oddly, Rockstar was missing.  She wasn't up in the rafters yet. I didn't see her in the stable pen. I called her name, and went to check under the deck. No Rockstar. I went searching all over, looking in the bushes and around the trailer, and in all the hiding spots I could think of. Not finding her, I circled out into the pastures where I expected to find a clump of feathers, proof of her demise. But there was nothing.

Trudging back to the house as dusk settled in that night, I felt hopeless. "Hang it all," I thought to myself. "If this is how it's going to be, let's just off the rest of them and be done with it." Sometimes it seems we can only take so much heartbreak.

The next morning, I went to the stable to get some fresh water for the sitting hen. Lo and behold, there was Rockstar, looking at me through the stable pen's gate, waiting patiently to be let out. And all was right with the world.

Kitchen Failure

I didn't think it was possible to ruin homemade pizza, but I managed to do it the other day. I had been busy all week with Stuff, and I hadn't been feeding my family very well. Granted, the day I bought the rotisserie chicken from the grocery store wasn't bad. We actually had vegetables and a good protein, though the pearled couscous I accidentally bought was not a hit.

So when I thought about making pizza two days later, I was rather proud of myself. Chris and the girls love my pizza. Joe? He will just have to deal with it. In between the phone calls and my mind being elsewhere, I whipped up some dough and left it to rise. Two hours later, when I rolled out the dough and started topping the pizzas, I realized I didn't have as much pizza cheese as I thought I had. No matter. A bit of cheddar will do. No black olives were in the pantry, though. How is it that on the days I'm not wanting them, there are five cans of olives instead of beans or corn, but today there are none?

A half hour later, and the pizzas came out of the oven. I sat down to eat, mentally patting myself on the back. And then I took a bite.

Who knew a little missing salt and olive oil could totally ruin a meal?

Daisy, the (not-so-brilliant) Escape Dog

When Finley went outside this morning, she discovered Daisy hanging out on the front porch. She must not have been out of her yard too long. Chris had been out that way just a few minutes before.

She had gotten away from us twice a few weeks ago, spending a good 15 minutes or more running all over God's green earth before we got her back into 'captivity'. 

This time, I guess she didn't feel like really running away. I got the leash, went out onto the porch, and she walked right up to me and let me put it on. We walked around for a minute before I led her back to her yard. 

"Where'd you get out, Daisy?" I asked her. I knew she had been spending a lot of time under the tree in the back corner, so we trotted back that way. As soon as I ducked my head under the branches of the tree, she nosed the spot in the fence she had squeezed through.

"Thank you, Daisy," I praised her and gave her a good scratch. Then I let her off the leash, and placed a little piece of wood and cinder block that happened to be nearby over the hole. 

What a good dog.

A Hike at Henry Horton State Park

We all have been getting too much screen time lately, so this morning I decided it was time we went for a little hike. The kids had gone to Junior Ranger Camp at the park last month, and were excited to tell me the history of the area they had learned. As soon as we got out of the van, Joe ran ahead, pointing out the different remains of Wilhoite Mill and an old cabin.

The trail started off along the river, then turned along an adjoining creek. My pictures, taken with my lousy little iPhone camera, don't do the place justice.

"Look! A pig nose!" - Z

And to think this is only four miles from our house.

Report For the End of June

It's the end of June, and things are slowing down. That is, if you consider a drop from 120 mph to 117 a significant slow-down.

Finley was at camp all last week, and it was a bit more peaceful around here with only a third of the normal sibling conflicts.

There is a coyote in the area, snatching some of our chickens. Sometimes I don't mind when a predator gets one of our chickens, especially if it is a chicken that doesn't understand the concept of personal space. But one of the birds the coyote got was the mama hen that was raising four chicks. Hot dogs and liver have failed to entice the beast into our live trap. I am working on a plan to raise the height of the chicken yard fence in an attempt to keep the birds somewhere safe.

I noticed one of our favorite chickens had a freakishly massive lump at the base of her neck, and when it didn't go away after 2 days, decided she must have an impacted crop. The food (or a foreign object) gets jammed on the way to the stomach, and it just keeps building up until the chicken starts to die. Thankfully, my brother had dealt with this before, and a day with her locked up with only olive-oil-soaked bread to eat took care of the problem.

I managed to throw some plants I bought on discount from the Co-op into the garden yesterday. I've had them for the past week, but the unplanted part of the garden had grown some major weeds. As I was pulling up the big ones before tilling the rest under, I thought to myself, "I'm not a real gardener. I just play one in real life." I am wondering if it is too late to start some winter squash. If there was anything I missed this last winter, it was having some on hand to make soup whenever I wanted.

Japanese beetles and the big, green June bugs are out, now. Half of the leaves on my cherry trees have been turned into lace, so yesterday, (thanks to my mom) I got them sprayed with neem oil. Those big green beetles aren't as destructive as the Japanese beetles, and it is always fun to watch the chickens try to chase them down. I just don't appreciate when they fly willy-nilly right into my face.

While bush-hogging last week, I noticed a turkey sitting on some eggs in the tall grass. In past years, I accidently mow to close to her nest, and within a few days, I go back to find she has been routed out by a predator and her eggs eaten. I am hoping I left enough cover for her this time. I think I'll wander down and see if she's still there before I tackle the next job on my never-ending list...

Things Are looking Brighter

I am done PMSing (at least for this month), I have some encouraging friends, and the two chicks that hatched out in the incubator yesterday seem to be doing well after being reunited with mama this morning.

Here We Go Again...

Before leaving to take the kids to the (amazing) day camp at our local state park, I wandered over to let the chickens out of the coop.

Yesterday, we had caught a glimpse of the broody hen's first chick to hatch. I had been a little worried when mama jumped off the nest to grab a bite to eat, leaving her baby and the large pile of eggs unprotected, but soon enough, she was back on the nest. After seeing other hens barge in with her to lay eggs, I wasn't sure how many of the eggs were due to hatch as well, but at least with her back on the nest, they had a chance.

This morning, however, I discovered the baby chick had ended up out of the nesting box and was outside the coop, running around desperately chirping for mama, who was still sitting on the nest. I tried to catch it, but it found a hole and disappeared under the coop. Needing to get the kids to the camp, I opened up the coop's big door, hoping that while I was gone, mama would hear her baby chirping and come to its rescue.

On the drive back home, I tried not to think about how this seemed to be the Everything-Goes-Wrong year.

The batch of chicks I bought early in the year all got sick and had to be put down. Finley's has started losing some of her 4H chicks, most likely due to the unsanitary conditions she had been keeping them in. I was trying to let her be responsible for everything, but my suggestions to clean their pen and put down fresh shaving had gone unheeded. I probably should have made her clean the pen, but at some point, kids need to learn by real consequences, and a mom gets really tired of nagging, you know?

And then there was the failed incubation of eggs. Since my last post, the second chick that managed to hatch died, and now I have one poor chick in the brooder. I thought about trying to put it in with the sitting hen, but that would have introduce another set of dilemmas, and now the chick was probably to old for it to work, anyway.

Getting out of the van, I shoved aside my pessimistic thoughts and headed back to the coop. If mama still hadn't come to the chicks rescue, hopefully I could catch it and put it in with Lonely.

To my relief, she had.

Now to deal with the clutch of eggs she was no longer sitting on. I went to the house and grabbed a paper sack with the thought that I would leave the unhatched eggs out in the woods someplace where they wouldn't stink up the yard and the chickens wouldn't get into them. The thought of them pecking at half-developed eggs was repulsive. Maybe some possum (they eat ticks!) would find them and have a good meal or two.

I started picking up the eggs one by one and checking for pip marks. As much as I wanted to be done with all the chicken drama of this year, I couldn't bear the thought of a little chick hatching out into a cold paper sack in the woods. A lot of the eggs were filthy, covered in dried, broken-egg yolk, feathers, and other unmentionable crust. As I was gently placing eggs in the bag, I heard a peep from the stinky nest, as if to say, "I'm not dead yet!"And, sure enough, I finally found an egg with a pip.

I carried the sack of eggs back to the house and set them it out in the sun in an attempt to keep them warm while I set the incubator back up. A few minutes later, the incubator was warming with one egg inside while I candled the rest of the eggs. The first one I picked up had a clear distinction between the air pocket and a shadowy mass inside. I think I even saw the shadow move. Egg after dirty egg I candled, most of them looking like something promising was inside. The nastier eggs, I washed off, then put them into the incubator.

So here I am again, bleeding heart and glutton for punishment, peering anxiously through the window of the incubator, waiting to see what life might break out of these 17 shells.

Don't Count Your Chickens

When I placed eggs in the incubator about a month ago, I only put fifteen eggs in, thinking that I didn't want more than a dozen chickens on my hands after they hatched. If half of those turned out to be roosters, we would have about six hens, three of which I planned to keep, and three I planned to give to a friend of mine who had recently lost most of her flock.

Three days before I expected they would start hatching, I candled the eggs and determined that one of the Lizzy-Chick/Fluffy head eggs had not survived incubation. Six more appeared to have not been fertilized. That left eight eggs I thought would hatch.

Then, on Monday morning, the day some out-of-town friends were coming to visit, I discovered an egg had pipped. The timing couldn't have been more perfect! I remembered vaguely from several years ago, the long, agonizing wait for that first egg to hatch. It would take several hours, I thought. I will try not to get impatient.

Our friends arrived, and we peeked in on the egg repeatedly throughout the day. Progress was slow. By nightfall, I was worried. Sometimes, if it takes too long for a chick to hatch out, the goo dries and the chick gets stuck inside the egg. I slept fitfully, praying that we wouldn't wake up to a dead chick.

Tuesday morning, a full 24 hours after pipping, the kids ran through the house screaming, "It hatched, it hatched!!!"

Just hatched.

My worries didn't quite subside, however. I had heard stories about chicks hatching too early, or hatching with intestines outside the egg, and there was a weird fleshy lump on its belly. 

A second egg pipped that day and only took 12 hours to hatch.

I thought we would start seeing more eggs pipping, but most of the eggs were eerily still. Finally, on Wednesday evening, the egg I really hoped would hatch pipped.

Thursday morning, not long after our friends left to head back home, the Lizzy-Chick/Fluffy-Head chick pushed out of its shell.

It had a second hind-toe just like Fluffy-Head, and its wet down promised a mix of colors. I was thrilled.

By now, the incubator reeked, so I decided to move the chick into a little box under the heat lamp where the two other chicks couldn't bother it. I tried to place it on the edge of the circle of light so it wouldn't get too hot, but I didn't realize how hot it really was under the light. When I went back to check on it a little while later, it was dead. It was all my fault.

The rest of the eggs never hatched. Apparently, conditions weren't quite right in the incubator.

I'm struggling today to find a perspective that feels right. Knowing someone I love that has experienced a more significant pain and loss recently, I don't want to be over dramatic in my own small sense of loss, or to reason myself away into flippancy. Sometimes life deals out a crappy hand we can't ignore, and when darkness threatens to overwhelm, we have to force into our minds all those beautiful things that make life worth living. It's not always easy.

Thankfully, that first little chick I worried over seems to be doing well. It still is sporting a shriveled little outie, but is active and loud.

All fluffed out.

The second chick is sweet and sleepy and can't seem to help falling asleep in my hand.

The 2nd hatchling.

And out in the coop, a hen has been sitting on 20 eggs. I'm not even going to try to guess how many will hatch.

My Buddy

Joe was feeling a little left out, what with all the awards and attention Finley and Z were getting. Today, I have good reason bang the gong loudly in his honor.

We went to pick up report cards today, and Joe made the 'A Honor Roll' for the first time this year. This, after the worrisome parent-teacher conference at the beginning of the school year. At that time, the teacher told me I should consider getting him 'tested'. He kept getting in trouble for playing with things in his desk. If only he could really focus, she told me, he would be an excellent student.

I wasn't really worried about Joe's ability to focus or learn. Joe was the toddler who would sit and play with one thing for long periods of time, determined to master whatever skill it was that toy required; I just figured Joe was one of those kinesthetic learners who did his best when he was moving. I was, however, worried about him getting trouble all the time. So I decided not to get him tested and just let things play out. If there continued to be a problem, I could pull him out to home school.

I never heard anything more after that conference, and his grades held steady. Every grading period, his teacher made the class set goals for the next grading period. Joe kept falling short each quarter, so at one point, Joe wanted to lower his goals drastically to make sure he could meet them. "How about we shoot for low A's." He agreed, and this time, he met his goals.

After Joe's teacher gave him a big hug and told Joe how proud she was of him, I asked her if Joe had stopped his fidgeting in class. "I just kind of got used to it," she said. "I learned to check in with him to make sure he was still with us." That sort of thing is what makes her an excellent teacher.

Just a Pinch

Zivah has been having GI issues for a while now... a nearly constant stomach ache since February. We thought at first it was only constipation, but after getting that cleared, the pain was still there. We're still trying nail down the source of the problem, so I took her in this morning to get some blood drawn.

I could see the anxiety on the nurse's face when we walked in. I doubt they take a lot of blood from kids. The pediatrician in the clinic is fairly new, so the majority of the patients there have been older adults. Besides, most kids (like Joe) think of needles, and the terror sets in as soon as they realize what is going on. "Does she know what's going to happen?" she asked. Yes, she did. I had told Zivah the night before exactly what was going to happen- how they would put a band around her arm to make the blood vessels stick up, then poke a needle in to take out some blood. I figured she could handle it. (Besides, I like to be honest about those sorts of things. How rotten is it to be surprised by pain mom knew about but didn't tell you?)

The nurse tried to make Zivah (and herself) feel better, complimenting her on her cowgirl boots and western shirt. I asked Zivah if she wanted to watch something on my phone while they drew the blood, but the needle was more interesting, and by the time I was able to pull up a Weird Al video on YouTube, the whole thing was over. She was a trooper- barely flinched when they stuck her- claimed it didn't hurt. The nurses were amazed by her calm.

"It's good I didn't get a Cinderella Band-Aid. I hate those things," she told me on the ride home. "Last time I got a Cinderella Band-Aid and I almost threw up."

That's my girl.

Lately On the Farm

It's spring time! And while it is always thrilling to see green and flowers after a long, dreary winter, the animal life is just as (or more) exciting.

So far this season, I have stumbled across frogs, a long-tailed salamander, large snails, a young rat snake, and a mama mouse with her four babies still latched on while she tried to run and hide from me.

Friday, a friend of mine nearly stepped on a little box turtle as we walked through some woods. I scooped her up, took her home, and named her Happy. She is currently living in a large watering trough I used last year as a planter. She likes to burrow in the soft dirt beneath the leaves of the plantain and other weeds. She's so good at hiding, the kids keep thinking she has escaped.

In other news, I have an incubator in the laundry room warming 15 eggs that are scheduled to hatch while some friends of ours are here for a visit. I am most anxious to see what pops out of the two off-white eggs in there. Those eggs were laid by Lizzy-Chick, the half-Polish daughter of our beloved Lizzy that we lost last year. We had Lizzy-Chick penned in with Fluffy-Head, Zivah's little silkie rooster. I wasn't sure at first if the eggs would be fertilized as Lizzy-Chick seemed to have thwarted every advance of Fluffy-Head's that I had seen. But he must have gotten his way at least a few times. When I candled the eggs the other day, both had evidence of an embryo and blood vessels growing inside.

 And it appears that the incubator chicks won't be the only chicks born on the farm this year. One of the hens has started sitting on a clutch of eggs. I went to offer her some scratch yesterday, and she about pecked my fingertip off, so beware. That mama's serious.

Kitchen Progress

After six or so months of living with open cabinets, my mom and I put up the upper cabinet doors today. Although it was rather convenient to be able to see everything and just reach in and grab stuff, I didn't like the cluttered look. If everything was lined up perfectly and matched somehow, I wouldn't have minded being doorless as much, but the cleaner look makes me happier.

 One of Chris's worries was that white cabinets would give the kitchen a bland, sterile look. To help with that, we went with darker countertops and oil-rubbed bronze hardware. The doors really brightened up the room. But the wall of white did seem a little stark and overwhelming, so to bring a little more warmth and color to the room, I brought down our Angry Birds and perched them atop the cabinets. (I know, I know, Angry Birds is so 2012, but it's the only thing I could think of and find that would work. Besides, I still like to play the game. The physics of it and all...)

May-O-Naze

I don't know how she did it, but for at least 97% of my elementary school days, my mother packed my lunch. (I figured by the time my kids hit 2nd grade, they could fix their own dadgum lunch. This must be why my older two eat cafeteria food 97% of the time. My mother was/is much nicer than I am.) Anyway, sometimes she would make me PB&Js. Sometimes she made mayo and cheese, except I didn't realize at that age that the mayonnaise wasn't really mayonnaise. It was Miracle Whip.

That is probably why I never really thought much about "mayonnaise". It was only something used to moisten the bread and cheese. It was certainly nothing that would add a nice flavor to food. I think I must have been a full-blown adult, living on my own, before I even tasted "real" mayonnaise. I remember being taken aback by the rich flavor of a packet of Hellman's and wondering why anyone would ever choose to use Miracle Whip as a substitute.

A few months back, I was staring at the label on my jar of Hellman's, wondering if Joe was sensitive to any of the ingredients. Thankfully, he isn't scary-allergic to anything that we know of, but he's always hated peanut butter, and any time it has gotten in his mouth, he complains about it making his mouth itch. We also recently discovered that lentils are on the 'no for Joe' list. Several spoonfuls of soup, and his mouth and stomach were in turmoil. He spent the next day at home with the squirts. That got me wondering. If Joe is allergic to at least two different legumes, could he be allergic to soybean products? Tuna melts are a quick easy meal I like to force on the family, but Joe complains about his mouth when we eat them. Either Joe is making it up to try to get out of eating them, or something- maybe the mayonnaise- really is causing him to react.

I did a quick internet search, and everything I found said that highly refined soybean oil is typically safe for those with soy allergies, since it doesn't contain the proteins that cause reactions. Just in case, I thought I'd try to pick up a jar of mayo that used something other than soybean oil, but every single jar in our local Kroger used soybean oil. Even the jars boasting use of the healthier olive oil used a significant amount of soybean oil. "Fine," I thought, frustrated that there are no health food stores near us. "I'll make my own mayonnaise."

So I did.

I should have known to expect yellow. After all, I did use a fresh egg from one of our free-ranging chickens. Our chicken's egg yolks are such a deep orange, marigolds are jealous. And so my REAL mayonnaise was a beautiful, sunny yellow. And I can't get over it.

To be perfectly honest, this homemade mayonnaise has such a zip and zing to it, I'm not sure I'd like it for everyday use, and I really don't know if the kids will like it. I may have to figure out how to tone it down a little. (Less vinegar/lemon juice?) And to be even more honest... I love the convenience of Hellman's, even though the ingredients are less than ideal. We'll see if this homemade mayonnaise kick lasts.

Teamwork

We've been busy around here lately. (Why do I even bother to say that out loud?) This time of year, it's hard to get to all the things on our list with the grass growing like mad. But with teamwork, all things are possible.

Since we are helping take care of part of our neighbor's property, it takes about eight total man-hours to mow everything we want and need to. (The grass on the go-kart track can not be allowed to get high.) Chris usually takes care of our property, while I handle the neighbor's with my riding mower. 

Friday, Chris decided to get a jump on the week's mowing. One half hour into it, he realized the blades has stopped turning (and cutting) the grass. Digging back into the memories of his Belmont Landscape Maintenance days, he remembered a problem they used to have with some of the mowers. The PTO switches would sometimes go bad. He pulled the part off his mower, and looked the part up online. It would cost us $30 and several days to get it fixed. Frustrated with the setback, we took a minute to daydream about selling his walk-behind mower that is too big for me to handle and buying a zero-turn I could use as well.

Wanting to make sure we wouldn't order a part we didn't need, I looked up a video on testing switches. Some shenanigans with the multi-meter revealed that the switch was still good. A few more more YouTube videos later, and we figured out we could test the mower's electric clutch by checking for electrical continuity through the clutch. Poking the probes into the wire harness sticking out of the clutch led us to believe the clutch was bad. I looked the part up online and discovered it would cost us  at least $180 and several days to get it fixed. 

At this point, it was getting late in the day, so we called it quits.

Saturday morning, Chris told me not to order the part yet. He wanted to pull the mower apart first. A few hours later, he had the clutch in hand. He wanted to test it again, just to make sure it was bad. This time, to my surprise, it looked good. We fiddled a bit with the section of wire harness that attaches the wires above the mowing deck to the clutch below and discovered a break in one of the wires. I went inside and looked the part up online. It would cost $15 and several days to get it fixed.

Instead, Chris decided we should try to fix it. He managed pulled the wire harness apart without breaking anything, reset the wire, and together we soldered it back into place, and it didn't cost us but a few hours of time. 

By the end of Saturday, the mowing was done.

And, now, because Chris doesn't want me to post a picture of him working on the mower, here is a picture of a lovely, little salamander I came across today.