First and Last

A few weeks ago, I was running errands with the boys in the back seat.  Out of the blue (a phrase synonymous with many things kid-related), my six-year-old, Will, asked, “Mom, when was the first Monday?”

These are the kinds of questions I do not know how to answer.  Why is the sky blue?  Let’s look it up.  What is God?  Got it.  How are babies made?  Sure.  But, when was the first Monday?  I don’t know.  I just don’t.  I mean, technically, I’m sure I could track down the answer by figuring out when the calendar was put in its current form, who made these changes, and when the vernacular became “Monday,” but even then, it wouldn’t start to answer his question.

His question at its root was not about Monday.  It was about marking time, finding a beginning, making sense of the world around him.

We have chickens, two of which have turned out to be roosters--roosters who like to crow every morning sometime between 6:00 and 6:30--roosters who are going to be traded with the farmer for hens before I wring their necks.  This morning, the red numbers on the clock glowed at me--the light screaming 6:23, mocking me, laughing and saying, “Your alarm is set for 7:03!  Nanny-nanny-boo-boo!”  I sat up, not unhappy, on the first morning in a long time that I’ve had to set an alarm.  Why?

Because today was Will’s first day of first grade.

We homeschooled for kindergarten because (long story short) it made sense at the time, and over the last week as we prepared for going to traditional school--gathering school supplies, buying new shoes, picking out fun snacks for lunch--I found myself counting down all the “lasts” we were sharing together.

Our last summer movie night.

Our last day of waking up with no alarm and staying in pajamas.

Our last sushi lunch at our favorite restaurant.

Last night, as we left meet the teacher, I asked Will if he had any questions. He grabbed my hand to cross the street and said, "Can you walk me into first grade tomorrow? And for the rest of the days until I get the hang of it?" Yes. Yes, I can. I wanted to ask him the same question back.

This morning, Will stumbled out of his bedroom at 6:37, far too early, saying, “The rooster woke me up.”  I scooped him up, no easy feat these days as he is quickly approaching my shoulders in height, and carried him back to bed.  I climbed in next to him and pulled the sheet up around our necks.  He pulled my arm around his head to rest on my shoulder and said, “I wish Daddy could be here tomorrow.”

“Me too, buddy.”  Tomorrow is Will’s seventh birthday, and Scott is deployed.  Unfortunately, this is not the first or last important day that we’ve been apart. I snuggled my six-year-old, on the last morning of his being a six-year-old, and asked, “What do you think about turning seven?”

He yawned, his morning breath invading my nostrils, and answered, “I will fun faster and be better at video games, and I’m not sure what else.”

And in that statement, you see why he is my hero: his future is full of possibility, even if he’s not sure what it holds.  

A little over a month ago, one of my dearest friends found out she was pregnant with her first baby.  We stayed up late talking, when she confided in me her anxiety about motherhood, the bittersweetness of closing an era of her life.  I assured her the bitter would fade, leaving only the sweet, after the first time she looks in the mirror and sees her belly starting to swell.  Or perhaps after the first time she feels the fluttering feet or hiccups from the inside of her abdomen.

I had a conversation with a recently divorced friend who confessed over beers that he slept with a woman on his birthday, the first since his divorce--a woman in her forties.  He laughed, thinking about how his ex-wife is still in her twenties, and added, “I’ve never even slept with a woman in her thirties!”

I pray daily for a friend who posted a picture on Facebook of her first visit to her baby’s grave, just days after her baby took her first and last breaths.

I spent time with three different friends while home in OK last month who marked six, seven, and eight months since taking their last drink.

Another friend posted a picture of her daughter’s laundry from her first weekend home from college.  A few of months ago, we didn’t know what that day would look like for them as my friend was starting her first round of chemo for breast cancer.  What a joy it was to celebrate her last treatment and announcement of remission right around the time her daughter moved into her dorm room.

We measure our days, whether we mean to or not, in firsts and lasts.  It is one way we attempt to measure what life is, what it means.  We take pictures, we keep records in baby books and journals, we make every effort to celebrate and mourn the passing of time by creating benchmarks.  These benchmarks are not just plot points  on our timelines--they are memories of joy and sorrow and everything in between.

When we got home this morning from dropping Will off, I asked Ben what he wanted for breakfast.  He replied, “Fried eggs,” and then added, “Can I play Wii?”

I answered, “Sure.  Just while I cook the eggs.  Then, you’ll need to come to the table to sit with me while we eat.”

As I cracked the eggs into the skillet, I heard his tiny voice, speaking aloud to himself, “I’m going to be Mario.”

Ben, the second child, the little brother, is always Luigi.  For the first time, he gets to be Mario.  And that, friends, is when I started to cry.  Every first marks a new beginning, even the tiny firsts.

I sat down at the table with Ben to eat, and he asked, “Can I have some toast?”

Ben likes toast.  Never in my memory do I ever remember making toast for him.

And then he asked, “Can I have some jell-o on it?”

Translating the three-year-old speak, I took the strawberry jam from the refrigerator and grabbed the loaf of bread from the pantry.

Today, I ate eggs and toast with strawberry jam with Ben--just Ben--for the first time.  And it was lovely.

Rock On

A couple of Sundays ago, we played hookie from church.  Strike that--we’d have to go on regular basis to consider it playing hookie, so really, I should just say we woke up on a Sunday morning with a plan to get “stuff” done around the house.

Scott’s plans included mowing and edging, and I headed to the space our neighbors had tilled earlier in the week for our shared garden.  Armed with a shovel and small trowel, I dragged the boys’ wagon full of tomato and pepper plants down the hill.  After checking out what the neighbors had already planted, I got to work.

The garden is far enough from the houses that I felt the joy and solitude that comes from gardening without the bustling sounds of our six busy boys who were playing and working with their dads up the hill--the coolness of the dirt on my hands, the careful planning of rows, the ache from digging holes, the knowledge that I will eventually be rewarded with the fruits (or in this case, vegetables) of my labor.

Growing up in OK, I spent my summers making mud pies out of red clay.  During our six years in Charleston, SC, I learned how to grow oversized crape myrtles and towering tomato plants in dirt that could more accurately be described as sand.  Now, as we are navigating this chapter of life in WA, I am presented with a different kind of ground.  We are situated up in the hills, with a view of the Olympic Mountains, on ground that, as I discovered with my first shovel full of dirt, is filled with rocks.

As I dug out holes for my plants, I had to throw out multiple stones, some smooth and round, some jagged and sharp, most smaller than the palm of my hand.  As I moved down the row, though, I found a few rocks buried deeper that were large--big enough that I had to dig much bigger holes than originally planned to pull them out.

I have always felt God--and I mean that just the way it sounds--in nature.  I can listen to sermons all day long and not feel inspired in anywhere close to the way I am when standing outside.  I see God in the size of the mountains and in the size of a grain of sand, in the movement of hummingbird wings and in the movement of the wind-blown trees, in the sound of crashing thunder and in the sound of sticks snapping under my feet on a walk through the woods.  God is both unreal and real to me in those places, where I am in awe of creation.

As I dug the holes for my plants, hitting rock after rock in the soil, I felt this sudden convicting grace.  At once, the parable of the sower came to mind.  It was one of my favorites when I was little--the story Jesus tells to illustrate how people receive God’s love.  I remember praying to be good ground for God--that whatever God was trying to plant would sprout a hundredfold crop, as the parable reads.  Even as a small child, I knew I was good dirt--that God could plant just about anything in me, that true joy comes in reflecting God’s work in my life.

But as I hit rock after rock, I began to reflect on how the simplicity of that message was somewhat lost in my adult life--this life of responsibility and work and loss and pain.  The garden of my life has not been rich with planting soil for a long time.  Instead, I found myself identifying with a much different piece of ground--the stony place, as Jesus calls it.

There is a surface level of dirt, very much prepared for the blessings and gifts, the dreams and ideas that God wants for me, a level of dirt that I’ve been tilling out of habit because it has to be done, because it’s what I’ve always done, because even with the business of living, I have not lost sight that I need to leave myself open for the seeds that grow into the things that will nourish me.

But.

Under that rich, moist soil is a level of rocks that if left unearthed will strangle the roots of anything reaching deeper to grow, the rocks that will push everything good and right straight back up to be scorched by the sun.

For me, the rocks have these names: pride and envy and selfishness and bitterness and anger and apathy and cruelty.  On the surface level, I believe most people who know me would not describe me as having any of those qualities (or maybe they would, and I am not nearly as self-aware as I think).  But the reality is that some of those rocks are just below the surface--they peek out in my snarky, judgmental comments about the way other people live.  They peek out in the private conversations with my closer confidantes when I expose my prejudices and thoughts of superiority.

With this revelation (as with all personal epiphanies) came a challenge: what am I to do with these rocks now that I’m admitting they are there?  I always have a choice.  In my weakest moments, I tend to pick the rocks up, hold them tightly in my hands, and hurl them at other people.  How often do I hurt others with my rocks, holding on to my pride and selfishness at their expense?

Oddly enough, as a child, I had a rock collection--rocks of every shape and size that I kept in a box under my bed, rocks I’d picked up on different family excursions, everything from trips to the park to family vacations to far-off places.  How funny that I still do that now--sometimes instead of throwing the rocks at people I love, I hoard all my rocks in a box, taking them out to remember the moments I picked up anger and envy, as if keeping them in a box will somehow make them go away.

But there is another choice.  A better choice.  One I will be reminded of every morning when I get up to check on our chickens on the way to water the garden.  

The same day I planted our garden, Scott and I were also working on creating an outdoor space for our chicks who are quickly growing into full-sized chickens.  They are still teenagers, so to speak, so they are not ready to join the laying hens quite yet, but they have certainly outgrown their brooder.  The owners of the house built a goat pen that has fallen into disrepair because it hasn’t been used in a few years.  We spent an hour or so clearing out the weeds and vines that had grown over the tiny house to start converting it into a small coop for our chicks.  In the process of creating this space, I began lining a walkway with rocks that I dug up in the area, some large and some small.  The pathway is meant to create boundaries, a place to walk safely without being scratched by the weeds and blackberry vines that grow rampantly around our property.  The pathway will hopefully make it easier to carry water and food back and forth from the garage to the chicks, as we continue to nurture them to maturity.

Instead of throwing them or hoarding them, I want to build something useful with my rocks.  I want to create boundaries with my apathy, so that I might never forget to care again.  On the other side, I will be guided by my cruelty, so that I will try my best to always be kind.  And each of the stones along the way will remind me that no one else’s feelings should be trumped by my pride, that no one else’s life is worth my envy, that no one else’s opinion is worth ruminating in my anger and bitterness. And so, I want to build this pathway in my life, one lined with all the rocks, large and small, that need to be dug up, lifted out, and exposed for what they are--the things that make me vulnerable and human, the things that must be removed in order for me to be perfect and hallowed ground.

Chicken Adventures: Meet the Girls

We have a lot of testosterone in our house.  When I found out my second son was a boy, I have to admit that I was disappointed.  Another boy?  Including our dog, that meant I would be outnumbered 4 to 1.  And it’s rough being the only girl.  A day in my life=superheroes, cars, dirt, and urine.  Urine.  So much urine.

I’m never invited to guys’ night.  Instead, I have to hang out all by myself with nothing better to do than read books or catch up on Jeopardy or eat massive amounts of cookie dough that I hide under the vegetables in the freezer.

So, in an effort to reclaim my girliness--to make up for the distinct lack of pink and purple and tiaras and ballet--I decided to bring up the estrogen levels in the same way any girl would.

I bought 12 chickens.

For a couple of years, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to have backyard chickens.  Motivated by Jonathan Safran Foer’s gripping book Eating Animals, we started changing the way we eat in our house.  We eat a lot less meat and a lot more fruits and vegetables.  We try to eat as local as possible and in season as possible.  Most importantly, we like to know where our food comes from.  

The angle makes it look like the bottom yolk is bigger, but it's not.  The top yolk--from my chickens--is bigger, firmer, and clearly more colorful.  The bottom yolk is from a "local" store-bought egg that probably sat on a shelf for 40-100 days before we ate it.

Before anyone writes me off as one of those people, know this: I’ve already mentioned my cookie dough addiction, and for the record, Doritos are always in season.  We are totally debatably normal people who are just trying to make better choices for our family, but we also have our guilty pleasures to be enjoyed without guilt on occasion.

We are a military family, so the next decade+ will be full of moves, so I can’t settle into farm life the way I probably would under other circumstances--I would LOVE to be completely self-sustaining to know that every bit of food I consume came from my hard work, but it just isn’t possible.  BUT, I can start with chickens and at least know that eggs are coming from healthy, happy, humanely-treated hens who haven’t been pumped full of steroids or antibiotics.

We live on 38 acres with only one family as neighbors, and we were chatting a couple of weeks ago about my desire to have chickens.  The Saturday before Mother’s Day, my neighbor, Mike, asked if I was serious about turning an unused outbuilding into a coop, and by Monday, we had a coop.

This shelter is right outside our house and wasn't being used for anything.  Neighbor Mike made the door out of  some chicken wire and scrap wood he found lying around somewhere on our 38 acres.

Helping Daddy build the door

Between our house and theirs, there are eight boys (the smallest one is tiny, so he was taking a nap) which makes a great construction crew.

I put Ben up here to take a picture, and Will said, "Is Ben trying to poop out an egg?"  Another added bonus to having chickens--more conversations about anatomy and reproduction.

Bawking.

Even though I look like I haven't showered (because I hadn't) in this picture, I wanted to post a picture of me with this chicken-induced smile on my face!

On Wednesday, I contacted two local farmers--two very lovely stay-at-home-moms--who sold me a total of twelve hens.  On Thursday, we had our first four eggs (which I think is a pretty excellent return considering the trauma my girls experienced being uprooted from their homes and transferred to a new place with a bunch of chickens they had never met before--probably not unlike how I felt when I switched schools between junior high and high school).  We had six eggs the next day and eight the next, so I think the girls are starting to feel comfortable in their new home.

Speaking of homes, I have too much pent up creativity to just throw them in a coop.  No, no.  Welcome to:

This is an homage to the epic serial novel, Bleak House, penned by the incomparable Charles Chickens.  I mean, Dickens.  (If nothing else, I hope you are a more informed reader by the end of this post.)

And now, some pictures and bios because I know you are all dying to meet the girls. They refused to line up for individual pictures, so if you want to know who is who, you’ll have to visit, so I can point them out to you.  Their breeds are in parentheses.

From L to R: Erika Buzzard, Feathery O'Connor, Emily Chickensen, and Louisa Lay Alcott.

• Louisa Lay Alcott (Rhode Island Red): a natural nurturer and motherly hen.  She is clearly the queen of the roost and lovingly keeps all the other girls in line.
• Feathery O’Connor (Barred Rock): the penultimate Southern lady.  She is quiet and reserved and makes her presence known with compact, deliberate strength.
• Emily Chickensen (Barred Rock): the shiest of the group by far.  She spends most of her time alone in the corner.  The other hens both fear and are drawn to her dark eccentricity.
• Erika Buzzard (Rhode Island Red/Black Australorp): the only hen without a literary namesake.  She is named after one of my best friends, who just happens to have a bird as her maiden name, and who is jealous of my backyard chickens and thus insisted I name one after her.  Erika is the only mixed breed chicken, making her the most unique of all the hens at Beak House.

Emily

• Harper Lay (Rhode Island Red): one of a kind and irreplaceable.  She is a hen who wears her morals on her wings as an epic purveyor of good.  Her wisdom is not broad, but deep, and she influences the other hens to think before pecking.
• Judy Plume (Rhode Island Red): the girls’ girl of the group.  Her juvenile humor allows her to be a peacemaker during girlish squabbles and makes her a perfect social chairwoman, organizing all girls’ day out activities.
• Maya Angelay (Rhode Island Red): the yin to Judy Plume’s yang, the woman’s woman of the group.  She exudes charm, beauty, and confidence.  Effortlessly.
• Eggith Wharton (Rhode Island Red): a hen of prestige and privilege, who appreciates the finer things in life while remaining accessible to those who have not had the same opportunities.  She is diplomatic and humble in regards to her position in the coop and maintains positive connections with everyone.  She is also the resident designer of Beak House.

Not a chicken.

My best helper.

Buying flax seed in bulk to add to their pellets.

Me and Dorothy

I love her.

Obligatory crazy chicken lady picture--take note of my new rubber boots.  Who doesn't love buying new boots?

• Emma Layzarus (Rhode Island Red): a proud and spirited hen.  Her natural compassion and fervor for hen life inspires all who meet her to act on behalf of less fortunate hens.
• Anais Hen (Rhode Island Red): a scandalous little lady.  Many of the other hens view her as an outcast and a show-off, while secretly wanting to be her.
• Eggna St. Vincent Millay (Rhode Island Red): a hen who loves her simple home and refuses to be bullied into submission by anyone who does not appreciate her individuality.  She is stubborn, smart, and assertive.
• Dorothy Bawker (Rhode Island Red): the comedienne of the group.  She is wildly (but forgivably and lovably) erratic, standing out in the crowd with her noise.  She makes friends easily but alienates some by spending far too much time at the water bowl.

We also bought six chicks on Friday, who are named after characters rather than the fabulous writers who created them.  Their names are tentative, as we won’t know if they are actually girls for another few weeks.  The two Rhode Island Reds are Jane Layre and Scout Finch.  The two Barred Rocks are Hester Preen and Katniss Everpreen.  The two Auracanas are Henny Weasley and Hermione Freeranger.

Each day has brought more eggs, and everyone seems to be adjusting well to Beak House.  Eggith Wharton and I are still in the process of decorating, but I will post more pictures soon when I have more to report.  Thanks for reading!