Chicken Fall Out

I am sitting in bed, listening to the cheeping of 7 new chicks. They're called peeps, as I have learned from Mr. Rodgers, because of this sound. My son, possibly the youngest animal savant in history, is forgoing his Saturday morning video to sit in the bathroom and take turns holding each baby chick. I am hopeful he'll lose interest before he becomes Lenny.

It occurred to me that some follow up might be good. When I finished the last blog, I was still emotionally touched by the whole chicken event. I definitely ran through a gamut of emotions on Wednesday, but landed pretty squarely back onto normalcy, as has my family. Michael generally doesn't read my blog, so he wasn't aware of the whole picture, and took it very smoothly. While a little surprised when I gave him the news and the basic information, he pretty quickly moved on. Max made a pouty face when I first told him what we were going to do, but after I explained it was the chickens he didn't like, he also moved on. So that left me and my very very smart, very very sensitive daughter.

I went to the school to pick them up, ready to go get more baby chicks. I can't very well run a chicken farm with a bunch of chickens who won't lay...so I had called our supplier, ascertained that they had the breeds of chickens I wanted, and was ready. I also did a fair bit of poultry research instead of working on tax accounting, and learned all sorts of things about breeds, all of which inspired me to get more chickens. But first, I needed to break the news.

She was bright and cheerful as we left her classroom and walked across the campus towards the preschool, and I decided to just jump right in. "Hey, honey" I said, "So, Didi and Dodo are gone". Without skipping a beat, she nodded and said "Okay". Remember the petting zoo/farm idea? She was expecting it. It's why the 3rd menopausal chicken had been given a stay of execution- they knew the other 2 were going to go...and they wanted to keep Dewey. We take a few more steps and she looks up at me and says "So, where are they?". Hmm. What to say? I need to strike a balance. I need to be honest, but not scary...I need to be matter of fact, but recognize that she is only 6...this is careful parenting time. I took a deep breath and said "We killed them." Um. Oops.

"What?!?"

"Well, honey" I backpedaled madly "I took them over the the Blancas (all the girls are actually named Blanca- mom and daughters) and Blanca took care of it for us. Remember, we were done with them, and this is what happens with chickens?" As we reach the bench for Max's classroom, her eyes have filled with tears and the sobbing has commenced. I sit on the bench, stroke her hair and say that I understand, that of course it is normal to feel this way and I remind her how when we eat chicken we discuss how it is the same animal we have outside, and I reassure her that this is the end of the cycle for Didi and Dodo and tell her about the little bit of thanks I said over the chickens for all that they had given us. She is sobbing into my chest as I say all of these things quietly only to her, and the other parents, who already think I am odd, stare at me and make those "ooo, that seems rough" looks. If they only knew.

When I am done saying all of my things that are supposed to make her feel better...and tell her that the good news is we will be able to get new baby chicks...and say that they felt no pain and that Blanca was going to clean them and bring them over for us to cook...her crying subsided. She was on her knees at this point, with her head on my belly, and she looked up at me, her tears drying, her eyes red and pensive. "Will there be a drumstick?" She asked hopefully. Whooosh! All the guilt I had disappeared. "Yes, honey, there will". And then, in a turnaround that would make any farmhand proud, she did as close to the Hannibal Lector fava beans lip smack as one might be able to do, if one isn't Anthony Hopkins. Um, ok, that kind of creeped me out.

Max's class arrives and Magnolia panicks, "Does Max know?" I assure her that he does, and that he is excited to go get new chicks, and also...well, reluctantly..."Hon, you know, Didi and Dodo were kind of old, and old chickens, well, see, we weren't going to roast them, the way you like drumsticks, cause they just won't taste as good, so we were, um, well, going to make soup with them. " Breath held, waiting for the reaction...She turned and looked at me- "Chicken Noodle Soup??" Well, actually I was thinking tortilla soup, but um, "Sure", I say. "Yay! I LOVE chicken noodle soup!!!" and off she skips to get her brother. Ok. So that trauma has passed.

We have an unsuccessful trip to the feed store in Tarzana, where the woman explains to me that just because they HAVE the chicks, as I inquired about over the phone, it doesn't mean that they can sell them today. They are only a day old and must be held until Friday. I am pissed, but the kids take it well, the free popcorn and promise of future chicks tides them over. Later, at home, I hear Magnolia calling to me- "Mom! The chicken is here!", I go to the door, and there is Blanca, white grocery bag in hand. I take it and say thank you and make sure she kept one of the chickens for herself. As I head into the kitchen I open the bag and right at the very top of the pile of raw chicken are 2 very clean chicken feet. Oy. I can't deal with chicken feet! Magnolia wants to see, and I put the bag on the counter. She picks up the foot and asks if it is, indeed, a foot. I confirm and she laughs. Laughs. She waggles it at Max, who is curious, but uninterested in touching it...and after checking to see when the soup was going to be made (not for a few days), they both scampered off to play.

I am proud of my kids. I am proud of myself too. I don't know that I will ever be able to do this by myself, as a friend pointed out on my facebook last night, it is not I that is hardcore, it is Blanca. But I certainly will enjoy the soup.

Not For the Faint of Heart

No. Seriously. It isn't for the faint of heart. If you have heart faint, stop reading now. If you don't, it is your own fault, because I warned you.

I am torn between giving you background on all of this or just jumping in. Hmm. Well, since my heart is still racing, and there is nothing like adreneline-fueled writing, I am going to just jump in. Kinda. Tiny background first...in case you don't know. We keep chickens.

I could sit here and explain how it has come to pass that in 11 years of keeping chickens we have never had to come to this before, but that will take precious time...so let's just say that for the first time ever, we had 2, um, menopausal chickens whose very presense irked me. The fact that they haven't laid an egg in over a year, the fact that they are mean and pick on the younger chickens (yes, I understand pecking order, but still...), the fact that they will actually chase my children around the yard during free range time (ok, that part is kinda funny), well, all of these facts bother me. I was ready to take them to the petting zoo near my friend's house and huck them over the fence one night. And, until a dose of utter practicality set over me this morning, that was the plan.

The economy sucks, right? Our personal economy has sucked for 2 years, so the worldwide phenomenon is kind of old hat to us, except that we're really tired of it already. Every time I buy chicken food I consider if I get enough eggs out of the deal to make it worth it...and for the last few months, that answer is NO. Now, chickens don't generally lay in the winter, and we have some oldies who don't lay at all, and we had a chicken massacre in December thanks to the neighborhood raccoon, who may have scared the surviving hens out of doing anything for a while, so there are reasons for it. I have decided in the last few days that it is time I take matters into my own hands. That if I am unhappy with something, I need to fix it, moping just won't do. This has meant a lot of being proactive...and this morning, it spread to the chicken coop.

I was out feeding the chickens and it occurred to me. Today was the day. The 2 old birds were going today...I would put them in the car and tonight take them to the farm. But out of curiosity, I first called our babysitter's mom, who is also our across the street neighbor, and also keeps chickens...although more in a Mexican Farm way than in our Hippie Hen Haven kinda way. I asked her what she did with her non layers...and she (after ascertaining that I understood that hens lay less in winter) said that she killed them and made soup. Nice. After some discussion, she agreed to come over and show me how. I agreed to it, thinking this is the practical thing to do...I eat chicken...why not eat ours? Of course as soon as I hung up, I began to freak out. I can't kill a chicken...I can't even kill a bug! I throw the hated snails into the chicken coop so they can do my dirty work, I move spiders outside on a piece of paper or in a cup...as much of a carnivore as I am, I can't handle doing it myself. Michael of course was unavailable for advice, so I set to work in my garden, hoping I would figure it out...and maybe 10 minutes later, over came Blanca.

She explained to me that it was easy. She would help. We would hold their feet and their wings, and cut off their heads. After their blood drained we would boil water, stick them in, and pull out their feathers (do I use my Le Creuset pot for that?). Once their feathers are out, we cut them open and take out their intestines! Oh goody! Is that all? Yeah. There is no way. So I admit my reluctance and she says "ok, I'll do it for you" (in Spanish, of course). Hmm. At this point we are each holding one of the hens, and we head over to her house. I am attempting to be brave and burly, but I am cringing inside. Like it's nothing we put Max in front of PBS kids in her living room with her 9 year old, she grabs a kitchen knife, all the while holding a chicken, and heads outside. I follow her.

Her backyard transports me to a foreign country, as it always does. All dirt, fruit trees of all kinds in amazing condition (why doesn't my orange tree look like that?), clothes, non functional applicances, a chicken coop, several dogs, and a trampoline suspended in air being used as a sun or rain roof...I take it all in as she puts the dogs away. I pet Didi, the hen in my arms (although, truth be told, it might be Dodo...they're interchangeable) and give her my thanks. I tell her that I appreciate her eggs and all the nourishment they have given me and my family and friends, and that I am sorry if she feels any pain. I tell her all of these things looking into her beady chicken eyes and petting her red feathers. Blanca returns, and as easy as pie, puts Dodo (or Didi) on the ground, one foot holding the chicken feet, one foot holding the wings...lifts her head up and begins sawing away at the chicken's neck until blood begins to spurt out and eventually it is no longer attached. she tosses the head casually to the side, then continues to stand there while the chicken body writhes and spurts blood. She is wearing her regular clothes, and has not even a drop of blood on her...well, until a bit from the turning, twisting neck piece spurts onto her shoe. We have a conversation about the English idiom running around like a chicken with it's head cut off. Executioner small talk, you know. Dodo is finally done, and she steps off and grabs Didi. Repeat.

Did that really just happen? She's going to peel and take out the insides for me, she thinks my squeamishness is cute. I have told her to keep a chicken in exchange. I feel like I am imagining all of this...but I didn't. Time to order some new baby chicks and get my soup pot ready.

I pride myself on not being a stereotype. I like floating between worlds. If I had to pick my favorite self adjective it would be chameleonesque. And I don't know if that just means I have a lack of commitment. I'm enough of a farm girl to raise chickens, clean their poop, use said poop to fertilize my garden...but slaughter? Um, no thanks, I'll go to Costco and get a bag of chicken breasts- boneless, skinless, as far from the original animal as they can resemble, thanks.

Shaken Off, Shaken Out, Shaken Up.

Michael came home from work about 20 minutes ago, very upset because a server crash in a data center downtown completely messed up his day. Meetings were made worthless, plans have to be changed, everything got screwed up. Like the Tasmanian Devil he came in, scrounged around for what he needed, then went to leave. Right before he left he turned around in the doorway, looked at me, smiled, and said "Shake it off, right? I just need to shake it off". I smiled and said yes, absolutely. He smiled wryly, then turned and left.

About 5 minutes later I heard a sound like a landslide of recyclables had just been dumped out. It was loud, and it sounded like it was coming from my driveway...I considered it for a minute, then went back to work, convinced it was likely my neighbors doing something with their trash. It is trash day, after all. Maybe 3 minutes later I hear Max shouting for me. It sounds like he is upset, which of course makes me jump out of my seat. "You have to see what happened, Mama! You have to come see what happened!" Ok. I ask what it is, but before I can understand what he is saying I am at the back door. Oh. My. God.

The very large, very old tree which sits on the property line between ours and our (other) neighbor's fence has been completely uprooted, and crashed down upon our very large wooden play structure, bringing the fence with it. I am in shock. Michael isn't answering his phone. So I blog.

These are the things I am freaking out about:
We can't afford to pay to fix the fence or the play structure, or cut apart the tree, and Michael has no time to do those things and I have no ability to do them either...

These are the things I am thankful for and trying to focus on in between bouts of tears and shaking:

The kids and dogs are fine. No one was out there, no one got hurt.

The only Must Do is fix the fence. The rest of it can kind of wait until we can deal with it.

It didn't fall on any power lines.

It didn't fall on the house (although, that would have been nice in a way...the house needs fixin').

It will be fine. It will all be fine. This will be my mantra today.

Daddy's Girl

There are times where my life is very confusing. I can imagine that reading about it may be even more so. I have a dad, who is technically my stepdad, who is legally my actual father, because he adopted me when I was 20, after being in my life since I was 8. As the adoption announcement he sent out stated- We will be in fact what we have long been in reality, father and daughter. I love him and all his eccentricities, his quirkes, his talents, his abilities, and his nobility. Never have a met a more trustworthy, honest, decent man...and he's a lawyer. This of course, made me not understand everything that is said about lawyers until I was an adult and realized they just weren't all like my dad.

I also have a Biological father. He and I have always had a troubled relationship, due in large measure to, I think, a lack of communication. He lives close by but we don't see each other very much. I call him Biodad when I am talking about him, but I call him Daddy when I talk to him or about him with my siblings, also his children. He was once also an attorney, but a heart attack followed by a stroke followed by a series of unfortunate instances have left him unable to work for the last 10 years or so. He's not a bad person, and I know he loves me in his own way, but there have been a lot of shortcomings which I choose to blame on him, since he was the parent, and while I harbor no ill will towards him now, I doubt that we will ever be close. He's Biodad, and important in his own right...but he really isn't my "Dad".

I just got off the phone with my mom, who relayed a conversation she had with my Dad (stepdad, right? see? it's confusing sometimes) at lunch which made me basically burst straight into tears because what he said was so sweet and so loving, I was overcome by emotion. I feel so lucky to have this person in my life. So lucky to have someone so good love me so much. I often say that Michael has a lot of my dad about him...and sometimes it isn't me being very nice. They are both workaholics. It's true, and I hate it, but there is nothing I can do to change them. Either of them. But they share all of the positive traits too, and for that I am so thankful. As much as I insisted I would never marry someone like my father (adolescent frustration over the working), I kind of did. And after hearing the message from him today, I am reminded how lucky I am to have both of them in my life.

Good Grief

The first funeral I remember attending was that of my paternal Grandmother, who passed the December of my freshman year of college. I was 17 and living at home, and I got the phone call from my uncle, letting me know that she had died. She had been sick for a long time, but as a typical teenager, it didn't occur to me that she was going to go anywhere, and so a combination of sadness over her being gone, and guilt over not seeing her more often overtook me. The service was going to be the next day and my mom, my grandma, and I would go. Later that day I got a call from my biodad telling me the news. He was annoyed his brother had beat him to the punch, but asked me how I was. I said, "I've been better" and he lost it. He started hollering at me that I didn't deserve to be sad, I didn't have the right, that it was his mother who had died, and I didn't care about anyone, and he was the only one who had the right to be sad. Shocked, I stopped crying, turned into my normal "Ariella talking to biodad emotional fetal position" and just got quiet. He calmed down and asked if I had directions to the Temple...and I made the mistake of mentioning that my mom was planning on coming and that she knew how to get there. More hollering about his ex wife and how she didn't deserve to be sad either. More quiet Ariella. That night I went out with 2 very good friends trying to cheer me up and while at the Fatburger across the street from the Beverly Center, my purse got very dramatically stolen from the counter right in front of me. The man came in, wandered, snatched my beautiful Italian purse, a gift from my exes parents, which happened to contain all of my tip money from the month, over 400 dollars in cash, which was to be turned into Christmas presents that weekend. Bummer. The funeral was pretty uneventful after all of that. I mourned under the protection of my mom and more importantly, my grandma, who no one would ever mess with.

My next 2 funerals were hard. My boyfriend was killed in a car accident. His funeral was the largest I have ever been to, but I was in such crushing grief I couldn't leave my pew I was crying so hard. Then my brother in law died, which had been expected, as he was sick, but having my sister and her 2 young boys be robbed of his life was heartbreaking.

I was then fortunate in that the next 2 funerals were for people who had lived their lives well and for whom death was a welcome passage into the next stage. My great grandmother, who had made it an incredibly long time, finally succumbed to age. My dad had been raised by her, so it was too hard for him to say anything, and I was asked to read his eulogy, and give my own. I somehow managed, through the tears, to speak with pride and love about this incredible woman. Michael's grandma was next, after battling Alzeimers for a very long time, and I honestly cannot remember more about the service than the color of the church. Seems fitting. Alzeimers is a cruel, cruel disease.

After that I had a break, and it wasn't until a few years ago that I was touched by death again. My very good friend's mom was battling cancer and lost. I helped him clean out her apartment then hosted a reception for him at my house. It was the first time I was so involved in the process, and while I knew her, my participation was because of him. Having become a mother, and caring for my friend who had lost his own, was an intense but incredible experience. During the reception, it was discovered that one of our baby chicks had been, um, played with by our eager dog and hadn't made it. I was very upset for about 3 seconds, until I realized we were basically at a funeral, albeit without a service, and in my backyard, and that being upset about a month old chicken was perhaps insensitive. I went to tell Magnolia the news, and as a toddler, she handled it exceptionally well. Her little face got very pensive and she asked "will we bury her?" and I said yes. Her face then lit up and she said "oh good, then Marble can become a flower!". Done and done.

My father in law battled with Muscular Dystrophy for years before I met him. Once I became part of the family, he very quickly won my heart with his spirit, his sense of humor, his patience, and his kindness. When he died the day before Magnolia turned 4, my heart ached not only at my own loss, and that of the world, but for my children who would never grow up knowing this incredible man, their grandfather. His funeral service seemed to last for days, mainly because it did. There was the rosary said the night he died, the rosary/mass before the funeral, the funeral service the next day, the burial, then the reception. Everything was a flurry and there were plenty of times to talk about Tommy, about his pain in life, and his release into death and into heaven. I remember looking through tears at his very plain casket dressed in the quilt I had made for him, which he often told me was his favorite gift ever. I remember being surprised and touched at the fact that my own family and friends came to the funeral to support me and Michael, and I feel like it was my first funeral as a grown up, in a manner of speaking. I didn't consider that it would just be the beginning. Tommy was taken before his time, but was well warned. We knew it was going to happen, it was just a question of when.

I can't talk too much about my Aunt's passing yet. Last year, at this time, I had just started my musical theater class and we had the news. Pancreatic Cancer. We were expecting to have 8-24 months, and I was ready to pack my bags and go wherever Mimma wanted, as soon as she wanted. I was ready to give up everything so I could be with her for whatever time she had left. Within a week, we realized it wasn't going to be that long. Within 2 weeks, we didn't know how much longer it would be, but it was going to be quick. 5 weeks later she would be gone. After some deliberation, we had the service in my backyard a week later. It was quite beautiful, and painful, and at one point, problematic, but that passed and everyone agreed that it was a good tribute. I am still recovering from the experience as a whole, and the loss, but the funeral itself is practically no part of that.

Yesterday, I went to a funeral for a friend of mine whose dad had passed after battling cancer for several years. I didn't know him, except through the stories, but I wanted to go and be there to support my friend. It was very hard for me, as he was about the same age as my aunt, and was leaving behind a devoted wife and 2 adult children very much not ready to lose their father. I cried a lot during the service, and ended up having to meditate away from the funeral to go to my happy place so that I didn't turn into a blubbering mess. It made me think a lot about funerals, and why we have them, and why we go. I realized that now I may go to as many funerals as I go to any other kind of life event, and the importance of grief. I thought about my own funeral, and hoped that it would not come for a while. While I have every intention on living as long as I can, I recognize that with my health history, I will probably go younger than most of my friends, and I think I am ok with that. Let them plan the party. But in a very weird way, it felt good to be there. It felt good to be able to support my friend and her boyfriend and her brother, even if it was just with hugs and smiles. It felt good to cry and be sad about loss, recognizing that life does go on. I rarely say die anymore. I say pass. I am not sure what we pass into, but there is something oddly comforting about talking like a southern african american woman.

My Gun Shoots Love

I decided before having children that raising children who were impervious to societally constructed notions of gender and sexual orientation was of priority to me. I recognized before they came along that I was in for an uphill battle, and one that would not be without biological warfare, as I believe strongly in the position "nature" holds over us all. However, I refused to be a part of it. I wanted my future children to be nutured in whatever way it seemed they needed, but not to go along with society's defined roles.

Once my actual children came along, it proved to be difficult. My daughter, dressed in a combination of gender neutral yellows followed by the scores of much needed pink and pinker hand-me-downs from her 4 older girl cousins took to girlishness much more adeptly at first than I was comfortable with. I didn't want to be militant, I know the road of the rebel, so I allowed her to choose once she was able, always offering the more neutral (ok, honestly, the "boy") versions of items first and more excitedly. She rarely bought it. On the occasion of her 3rd Christmas, she was a few months shy of 3 years old, and what she wanted was a pink Princess Aurora(I refuse to call the character Sleeping Beauty. The woman had a name, for goodness sake) dress and I balked. There was so much pink in this dress it made Peptol Bismol look butch. And Disney? Ugh. And a Disney Princess? Double up Ugh Ugh. But I considered the fact that this is what she REALLY wanted. And wasn't raising children who were fulfilled part of my ultimate plan? *Sigh* Yes. And so I bought the dress. And there, on Christmas morning, amongst the fabric wrapping bags, and recycled/upcycled gift tags, and the learning toys, out came that pink dress. The look on her face was priceless, truly. She was thrilled and begged to put it on. As we pulled it over her head, her face aglow with delight, she asked, "Mama, am I a princess?" And I took a deep breath and replied, "Yes, darling, you're a princess. You're a princess who is strong, and brave, and smart!" And she ran her little hands down the front of her Pink Extravaganza and breathed out "And SPARKLY!".

On the other hand of the fence (tm), Mother Nature blessed me with balance in the way of a boy. And what a boy he is. Many many articles I've read on the subject made me realize that no matter how hard I try, I wouldn't be able to keep him from sometimes being aggressive and probably from loving guns and fighting and war. I'd managed to keep him away from transformers and power rangers and all things fighty until he went to preschool and caught on very fast that what these other boys were talking about was COOL. His first Christmas after preschool he was clear, he wanted a Transformer. When asked what kind, he said with much determination, "the kind that turns into a Tree!". Awesome. A hippie transformer. :) Sadly, those days have now passed and he is keen into guns and light sabers and karate. He still hasn't seen enough of these things in the way of movies and the like to truly understand, but man, he wants to.

So yesterday, we were building with this cool buildy thing my sister gave the kids. I made a paint sprayer to paint beautiful paintings, Magnolia built a food ordering device that could make 4 dishes- ice cream, noodles with pesto, grated cheese, and shrimp, and Max made a gun. After playtime came work time, and I went into the yard to prune some fruit trees. Max came along, shooting stuff in his wake, and then offered his gun to me. I took it, wanting to bond and play with him, placed the very large device over my shoulder, took careful aim, and shot, making my exceptionally pitiful shooting noises. He was impressed and asked what I was shooting. I told him I was shooting love into our garden. He looked perplexed and took the gun back. He peered at it suspiciously until his gaze focused on 4 little bolts on one of the gun crossroads. His confused look changed to understanding and said "oh, mama! Did you use the love button?" Smiling, I responded..."yes, honey, I used the love button". He looked again at the gun and pointed to the bolts, naming them. "See, mama, this button is for arrows...this one is for love...this one is for, um" ("good energy?" I offered), "Yes, good energy...and this one is for just blowing things up." Ok. That's ok. As long as sometimes the gun shoots love.