stuck egg
One of our chickens has a stuck egg. I spent a half hour in the morning giving her hot water baths and crushing up egg shells for her to eat. Dan helped me set up an isolation coop (Sorry Cindy! It turns out we DO still have the dog crate we said we gave back to you!) and I've left her there in the middle of the hard to try to work things out.
I went out a few minutes ago with a finger covered in olive oil. All I could think was, "There is no part of me that wants to do this." I had to stick my finger what felt like MILES up her vent before touching an egg. Her belly is all pink and distended but I'm starting to think it could be something other than the egg, because the egg doesn't feel that massive. But then again, I'm no farmer, and like I said I really disliked having my finger up there.
I feel terribly guilty for the mix of thoughts I'm having.... that if it keeps raining I should bring the isolation coop into the house... that it might be better for the chicken to die than to have a chicken coop in the house the same day we host 25 people for Zion's birthday party. Maybe I should let all the chickens out for exercise... maybe then she'll get eaten by a hawk and I won't need to clean up a dead chicken mess.
Harvey is out of clean diapers and rascal needs walked and it's raining. How do real farmers do anything? They have so much more to do? Maybe they are not wracked with guilt at the thought of failing a chicken.
zion is one
This time last year I was staring into the serious looking face of an out-of-breath midwife. She was saying, "Do you want to squat down on the bathroom floor and have your baby? Or do you think you can make it to the bedroom?" Five excruciating minutes later, Zion was born.
It's hard to believe that was a whole year ago. How could it be a whole year ago, when he's still so much a baby? when they're both such babies? When they both cry and whine and need something from me every single second just like newborn babies?
I still have many days (today included) that feel like total unmitigated disasters. When I say to myself, isn't this supposed to get easier? Aren't I supposed to get more sleep? To have more energy? Today I revoked all McDonalds privileges due to fighting, only to determine that meant we just couldn't eat INSIDE the restaurant. I needed their fast food coma time to clean the living room.
I call Dan at work for comfort and he says, "Put. on. a. show. A MOVIE. Totoro is an hour and twenty minutes."
I'm sorry, I've been feeling a little down today on account of being sick and spending all morning in the rain with a constipated chicken. Now Zion is napping and Harvey is singing a little song to his leggos and they are both the most beautiful creatures in the world. They deserve a whole chain of McDonalds. A piece!
I have wanted to write something about how I don't feel compelled to give Zion a big birthday send up, because every day is his. Every day is Zion's day, every day he gets his mama, for love, for food, for sleeping and playing and being with 24/7.
Yet today I feel that this is true and also untrue... Zion gets his mama but so does Harvey and so do Rascal and the chickens and Dan gets a tiny slice that should be bigger. Sometimes my presence is the best gift I can give Zion, and sometimes he might be better off if I took a quiet break in a dark room. At any rate, we all have each other. Whether we're eating french fries in a restaurant or I'm making them squat in the sandbox while I stick my finger up a chicken's butt, whether we're singing Happy Birthday or I'm screaming "HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO STAY OFF THE DISHWASHER" we've got each other, every single day, and it feels longer than a year, it feels like forever... In a good way.
Happy birthday Zion. I'll give you your present when you wake up to a clean living room.