A text conversation with my sister:
10:36 a.m. You need to blog more.
For my sake alone
10:37 a.m. Yeah I know. I'm feeling uninspired.
10:38 a.m. Get inspired--duh
10:39 a.m. Duh. I'm in an, "I'm never going to be good at anything phase."
10:51 a.m. Bummer. Are you upset that the chickens don't let you touch them and prefer Butch (my husband's family nickname)?
10:56 a.m. Yes, I'm terribly jealous.
10:57 a.m. You really shouldn't let that impede your creativity.
Let me just tell you, when you get chickens, it always comes back to the chickens--even my lack of blogging. There is basically an endless stream of chicken humor going on in our house, and Walter and I just never get tired of it. We say things like:
-What are you making for dinner?
-Well, I just put a chicken in the oven.
-Which one?
Hardy-har-har.
A few nights ago I was talking with my sister and told her all about how Walter finally succeeded in taming "his girls" so that he can hand-feed them and they let him pet them at night when they are roosting.
-Do you want to come out to the coop and pet the chickens with me?
-Yeah right, they aren't going to let me touch them.
-I'm telling you, they all line up in a row and I pet each one.
-Well, okay, I guess I need to see this.
-I whistle to them as I walk up to the coop and then before I leave.
-Isn't that sweet. (In other words, your're so weird)
I must admit, I finally witnessed this nighttime relationship my husband has with our chickens (don't get any weird ideas), and though he claimed they weren't as docile as they usually are, I did get to pet one of them.
-See, wasn't that fun? They aren't usually so skittish, I think they just didn't like that you were there.
-That's nice. Next time I'll leave you and your girls alone.
There is one chicken in particular, Zebra, who is especially friendly with Isabella. Leave up to Isabella to name a chicken, Zebra. That's like naming your Dog, Cat, but whatever.
I was so excited to shell peas and couldn't stop exclaiming how adorable my peas were. You know how people stage their newborn baby to look like a pea in a pod--cute, right? Let me just tell you, real peas, in a real pod...way cuter. They slept all night in our fridge--didn't wake up a single time.
-Isabella, are you sure that's what you want to wear? Do you see how there is a completely different pattern on the shirt from the shorts? (sorry, I don't have a picture)
-Yeah. But I think it looks pretty.
It was basically a floral explosion, but she thought it looked it pretty, and I couldn't argue with that because I want her to be creative, and expressive, and proud of how who she is.
That's why I kept my mouth shut when she walked out of her room in this:
