Chickens

We took the kids out to dinner last night and they were a little bit whiny and loud--disputes over the crayons and wanting to work on their artwork instead of eating the scallops they really, really wanted. A few threats to bring them out to the car for the duration of the meal were effective, but overall, we weren't impressed. As we were packing up, though, a nice older lady from a nearby table came over to tell us how she'd been admiring our sons' manners and wanted to let us know. The boys beamed with pride and put on their coats without a fuss. Sometimes, out of the blue, you get thrown a biscuit.

The chickens are another bright spot in our parenting world. Every time I ask him, Cliffy will set down whatever he's doing and get his things on to take care of the chickens. He feeds and waters them, checks for eggs, and lines their boxes with hay. When he's out of hay, he brings a sled around to the upper part of the barn (it's built into a hill), climbs up on the hay and rolls a bale off the stack, drags it onto the sled, and pulls it around to the chicken coop. A bale weighs about thirty pounds and it's bigger than he is, but he's figured out this system. When he thinks he needs help, he asks Jackson. The two of them can make chicken chores into a major adventure, dividing and conquering the tasks like they're taking over a subcontinent.

So when I'm asking them for the third time to wash their hands for dinner and no one is listening and I raise my voice without response and then I have to scream over the din and they look up at me as if they just can't fathom why I would be interrupting their play and making demands of them, I can think of the chickens.