Where does the time go? I’d like to strike a balance between it yawning in front of me and slipping past.
Our weekend away was wonderful and too short. It was full of fort building and walking and catching up with family. Also lots of purses. Fancyhats was dismayed when I came home with three new purses. I’ll be taking their pictures because one is magnificent and we should all spend a moment admiring its beauty.
Also, this happened. There is one processed food you’ll have to pry from my cold hands: peanut butter. Not that organic almond crap or that chalk stuff with the oil on the top. I want chunky Skippy or Jiff. Nutter Butters are my weakness. And this package was waiting for me when we arrived in paradise. Look! It even has Nascar branding on it! Oh, they’re so delicious. I love you Nutter Butters.
We are experiencing a little chicken drama lately. Keeping chickens isn’t all fun and eggs, let me tell you. There’s chicken drama. First of all, Mrs. Peckinsmith is laying again so that’s good, but she has this habit of laying eggs without shells, so that’s bad. Trixie isn’t laying at all, poor sweet thing. The 6yo thinks it’s because she’s still hurt from the raccoon.
The two babies are questionable. The Spitzhauben just doesn’t grow. And she’s not all that great at walking. Fancyhats keeps saying, “the yellow one is broken.” He said this about me when we first started going out and I puked for three weeks straight. That’s a funny story for another time, but, in short, the first three weeks of our relationship were spent with him holding my hair as I puked on various things including baby trees, in parking lots and around any toilet within reach. During this period, he’d say, “Are you broken?” I think of this when he makes the same claim about the yellow chicken. I think “go little chicken! He’ll grow to love you and your sensitive stomach! Keep not walking and not growing!!!”
The little brown chicken is a boy, we believe. We are not basing this on anything real, just the fact that it seems bolder and seems like it might grow a comb. Again, nothing real.
So where are we at with chicken rearing?
1 chicken that’s laying useless eggs (who also has a bad attitude)
1 chicken still too scared to lay an egg because of a raccoon attack
1 baby chick that’s broken
1 baby chick that’s a boy
Urban chicken farm=success!