Crying

I helped Richard put the chickens away tonight.  I went into the chicken coop and swung the inside door shut, my mind on other things...the garden, putting up the pea fence, making jam.  

I heard the flap of wings, and the squawk.  I knew what it was before I felt it.  I shouldn't have been so scared.  But when that 10 pound chicken landed on my head, and embedded its talons into my messy bun hairdo, well.  Well.  I screamed like I was on fire.  I screamed bloody murder for my husband to save  me. 

He heard me from the green house, shrieking his name.  By the time he made it into the coop, the chicken had disengaged its legs from my hair and flown to safety.  I was standing there with my face in my hands, crying like a little girl.  My chest was heaving, the tears were flooding my face and I couldn't breathe.  I can't remember the last time I bawled so hard.  

What could he do?  He had missed the action, and he couldn't make out what happened through the squeaks and hiccups and sobs.  So he just held me.  And we just stood there.  And I just cried.  

Potato Bug Scam

It's gardening season!  We have our very own potato patch this year, and the potato bugs are just starting to discover it.  The kids are employed as Official Potato Bug Catchers, at a rate of 1 penny per bug.  Doesn't sound like much, but at the height of the season, that's about a candy bar per day!

This morning, Graedon collected all his bugs in a bucket so I could count them.  He watched them for a bit, and a crafty smile came to his face.  "Hey, Mom!  They're mating!  I'm going to let them.  Then, there will be lots and lots of bugs and I'm going to win!"

He's a smart little bug-ger.

Help Wanted

We've had quite a few people ask how they can be of help during Richard's surgery and recovery.  We're not great on-the-spot thinkers, and there's always the temptation to say, "Oh, no!  Don't bother!  We'll be fine."  Truth is, we really could use the help, and we're  more than thankful for the offers.  This isn't the time for pride.  After all, it's more a blessing to give than to receive, and who am I to stand in the way of your blessings?  I take the same stance with Christmas presents.  :)

I also know what it's like to want to help, but then feel at a loss of what to actually help with.  Here's a few ideas:

1)  Pray for us.  Very easy, and super helpful.  We're praying for a safe surgery, no complications, a smooth transition to being home with a new hip, and the kids coping with all the changes.

2)  We'll be housebound for quite a while after Rich gets home, so we'll no doubt get a bit shack-whacky.  If you'd like to come visit and keep us sane and socialized, you're welcome!  Please, call first.  We want to make sure we're dressed :)

3)  Coming to visit?  Give us a call and see if there's anything we need from the grocery store.  Rich can't drive, and my time out will be sporadic.

4)  Meals....always welcome.  And delicious.

5)  Are you more the practical type?  How about mowing some lawn, weed-whacking or weeding the garden patch?  Muchos gracias.

6)  The kids love the park!  They love doing crafts.  They like playing with other kids.  They like eating.  If that sounds like that you love to do, invite them along.  Rich and I might enjoy the rest, and the kids will love the change of pace.

7)  Just be there.  We love you and appreciate you!

Good-bye Cabbage, and Houdini Chickens

We free-range our chickens, just like we free-range our kids.  It's something I really believe in, but I've just found out that they've been eating my little cabbage and broccoli plants from the garden.  The chickens, not the kids.  They've also been laying fewer eggs, which makes no sense since the weather is gorgeous and they're eating like pigs.  Again, the chickens, not the kids.

So, Richard and I came up with a plan of attack.  We wouldn't free-range them anymore, at least not until they quit eating my produce and stepped it up a notch with the egg laying.

Now, our coop is actually an old baby barn.  There's a heavy outside door, and a lighter inside door.  They both shut pretty snugly.  This afternoon I glanced out the window and there the chickens were, pecking away at my plants.  What?!  How?!  Obviously, someone must have let them out.

I rallied up the troops and asked them who had opened the doors to let the chickens out.  Nobody did it.  Wasn't us.  Then how? asked I.

Simple.  According to my eldest, all thirteen chickens huddled together, leaned their collective weight against the barn door and shoved it open.  Just like a scene from Chicken Run.

They did it again today.  Smart chickens.

Tired

Summer is here, and I'm tired.  There.  I said it.  I admit that I am not super-mom or super-woman or super-cook or anything else super.  I am behind in school, I am grouchy with the kids and I can't seem to get myself in any gear other than slow.  Maybe it's the fault of lingering on the brink of healthy and sick, or perhaps being back into the swing of lone-parenting that happens on summer weekends.  Perhaps it's attending three births in as many weeks.  It might even just be the normal wear and tear of being the adult in this place.

Richard is cramming as many work hours as possible into the short amount of time left before his surgery.  I'm used to dealing with the kids, but doing it alone at night is a bit more taxing.  I celebrated a successful weekend of single-momness by changing my Facebook status to reflect how we all made it through in one piece.  A real-life single mom took offense, telling me that that was her life day in and day out for the last five years.  In short, shove it, Sister, I don't know how good I have it to be part of a full family with a supportive partner.  Well, yes, I do.  It makes it all the more difficult when the work weekends happen.  I don't think it means I need to feel any less thankful for getting the kids and myself through it without a trip to the ER.  Shove it, Sister, indeed.

Anyway.  Nuff whining.  I am not fit to be around this evening.

It Ain't Pretty....

...but it's borderline acceptable.

With Richard needing extra help around the yard this summer, the job fell on me.

I don't mind.  I just hope he doesn't.

I've never successfully weed-whacked before.  I've never successfully whipper-snipped, either.

So, I think that for a first time, I did okay.

After a half-hour, my legs were unsteady, I was sweating, my

hands shook like jelly and my muscles felt like I'd just bench pressed a water buffalo.

Richard (who has very high standards that he can't keep from enforcing) intentionally

 refused to look my way, which is

exactly what a man who wishes to stay married ought to do.

I'm still waiting for the shaking to stop.

Okay, so the job isn't to professional standards.  Under the trampoline kind of reminds me 

of the time Eva gave herself a haircut.  

Let's be honest, though.  Trimming isn't about pretty.  It's about destroying any potential

breeding grounds for alders and copperhead snakes.  

I think I succeeded at that.

Considering all I had to work with was a gas powered stick and a spinning piece of nylon string, 

I think I did just fine.

Sick

Poor June-Bug (wow, Gen hasn't been called that in ages!  That was my mom's pet name for the little rascal.)

Oh, wait.  First a story, while we're on the topic of June bugs.  Months ago, Richard rented a movie for date night.  It was about a girl and a boy and his best friend, and they all go skiing.  Romantic, right?  Well, it was until the boyfriend got eaten by a pack of wolves, and then his friend slides off to the rescue and he gets eaten by a pack of wolves.  Anyway, since that date night I've been scared of going outside by myself after dark.  You know, in case a wolf eats me.

Last night, with Rich gone to Memramcook to work, I realized at 10:30 pm that I forgot to lock the chicken coop.  Next to being eaten by a wolf, having the chickens eaten by a fox or coon or skunk is a pretty real possibility.  I put on my big girl panties and my gum rubbers and left the safety of the house to go take care of the chickens.  My muscles were tense and my eyes scanned the lawn for any signs of carnivores.  And then!  Then, I was viciously attacked by a June bug!  It whammed into my head, got it's sticky legs caught in my hair and met it's death in a flurry of screaming and hands batting.  Now I need to add one more thing to my irrational fears.

Anyway, poor Gen.  She's sick.  I'm sick.  We're all going to get sick.

But at least we're not going to be eaten by wolves.  As long as we stay inside.  Where it's safe.