When something comes out of a chicken's butt...

You might think this is a blog about adoption.

Or about military life.

Or homeschool things.

Marriage. 

Children.
Truth is, I don't even know.

This morning I woke up to what I usually wake up to. 

Probably similar to what a lot of moms and dads wake up to across the planet.

Grant was yelling at someone to give back a toy that was his. 

Then the pad, pad, pad of his feet running down the hallway to tattle. 

Then the questions that come every morning. 

The questions that I've never once, not once said, "yes" to, but still he asks. 

"Mom, can I have a popsicle for breakfast?" 

"No." 

"Okay, can I watch a movie?" 

"No, not until after breakfast, and chores." 

*whine* *wail* *waah*

Then Reagan came in doing the potty dance, and I yelled at Kennedy to take her potty. Uh. I mean, I was a responsible parent and got out of bed to take her potty. Then I climbed back into my bed to enjoy its king-sized goodness. Goodness that just 30 minutes before, was filled with sweaty, snoring children. I tried to add up the hours of sleep I had accumulated during the night, but that just made me depressed. Legs cramps. Nightmares. Children are such complicated beings.

I figured it might be a rough Saturday.

 I managed to get out of that soft haven and step out into morning time with deranged children. I'm not really sure why I can't stay in bed all day; because that's just what I'd like to do. Something in the pit of my stomach says that that would be slovenly and wrong. 

 I took one look at their tired, bickering faces, and decided to step outside to, "check on the chickens."

That's what I say when I'd really like to go on a walk or sit on my porch swing and stare into nothing. The problem is, I think it's a questionable practice to leave your children alone in the house while, "you go for a walk."  When I sit on my porch swing, the children seem to think that that's an invitation for them to join me. When I have shooed them away, they press their smudgy little faces against the glass of our back door, and stare at me in a way that both seeps the enjoyment out of my bones, and makes me laugh.

So, I check on chickens.

I walked out to the chicken coop. After I stepped into the pen, those birds gathered around and eyed my sandaled toes  hungrily. I thought they must be starving to look at my feet like that. But after checking their food supply, I discovered that they were just being mean. This hurt my feelings. Since I am the one who gave them life, put up with their stinky little bodies while they were babies, and cleaned out their poop when it became overpowering in its smell.

For 10 days we have not had a single egg. It's been on my mind night and day. Day and night. What could make them stop laying? What varmint could be sneaking away those eggs? 

I made a little cardboard house of death. One that the chickens could not get into, and I put out some poison. I hoped that if my problem was a rat,  it would go to heaven and my golden eggs could again be found.

Five days went by. Still no eggs.

Today, I lifted the lid to the nest box...and VOILA!

An egg.

And that is all there is to this post.

I found an egg today.

And that makes me very happy.

"I'm the one on the left."

      

"Toes. "

"Sometimes something coming out of a chicken's butt can make even the worst mornings great."