It started with winter survival–a heavy dose of BBC garden dramas, or before that, last spring, with a moment the day before my birthday, when to my shock I blurted out–in front of the children–that perhaps this year, instead of a spatula, they could get me baby chicks for my birthday. I don’t know what I was thinking. I have never wanted chickens. My friends have chickens. They don’t interest me. But there was that sign at the Farmer’s Cooperative that warned that final chick orders were due soon, and it worked on me. It got under my skin without me even knowing and now here I was blurting it out–in front of the children. I stammered. I tried to take it back. The kids were already celebrating and making so much noise that they couldn’t even hear my furious backpedaling. I called two of my closest friends, who both already had their own flocks, and “yes” they said, “Absolutely get chickens. They are so easy to take care of and so much fun and I’ll help you build the coop,” they said. Within two hours I was walking out of a local farm supply store with six peeping baby chicks in a little container that disturbingly resembled a Happy Meal box.
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