This is a story about how much I love my husband. And my son. And our pets. It goes like this:
My lovely Bicken fell victim to poultry murder last week. My bossy and endearing Chicken Bicken has been lonely. She waits outside the back slider door by herself. She laid this pathetically tiny and adorable mini egg.
She started trying to befriend Lily. Sort of. Whenever Lily tried to return the interest, Chicken Bicken lunged at her. Lily took the hint.
(“Mom. I do not know what to DO with Chicken Bicken. Stop taking pictures. Make her leave.”)
She was intensely confused about the concept of chalk. Isaac let her peck it around while he drew.
She painted her own beak pecking the egg shaped chalks. (“Mom. Mom. Mom. These are eggs. These are not eggs. Mom. Mom. I don’t get it. Mom. Mom. Mom.”)
She tried to befriend my phone. I clicked the photo button as she was pecking the crap out of the screen.
The next morning, we couldn’t take her sad little chicken-pacing outside the slider door. Ryan, my fantastic husband, brought her inside our kitchen to eat breakfast with us. We dropped her homemade waffles and she made her happy chicken noises around… our kitchen. Befriending started anew:
Chicken Bicken was fairly unimpressed. Numa was completely confused. (“Moooooom? What is this? What is this? What is this? How do you PLAY with it? No but seriously. What IS this?”)
Catboy was terrified, per usual. He stayed in his safe viewing position behind the door the entire time.
(“I hate you right now Mom. Seriously. Hate. You. First that damn black cat. Then the dog. Then the boy. I spent months in the basement hiding from all of them. GET. THIS. THING. OUT. I hate you.”)