Oh no

Today's work involved applying wound pressure and mopping up a child's blood. My job is mostly talking people through using the print system/quacking at babies, with exciting bursts of screaming drug addicts and the infrequent horrific child injury.

When I pulled up at home after filing incident reports,  the boys were outside painting the new fence with cherry stain like they were swabbing it with blood. I sat and looked at them for minute, until Zenny ran up to the car, yanked the door open, and yelled, "YOU HAVE TO LOOK AT THESE BABIES."

Plucky was home. She disappeared the day before Easter and I had counted out her due date to this weekend, so I had a big bag of chick crumble in the passenger seat, which I had picked up from the feed store behind the library on my morning break - before one of my preschoolers lost a fight with a book case while her mom was gluing together a foam sandcastle.

There are ten of these adorable little nuggets.

TEN.

WE CANNOT HAVE TEN CHICKENS. That stupid handsome rooster from up the road listened to none of my lectures about chicken birth control (which was basically just me chasing him around with a hose).

Plucky is a really good chicken mom. I picked up each of the little black fuzz balls and looked at them for identifying marks - a little golden spot on the cheek, a stripe under the chin, one with funny eyebrows. I love them.

This is an appropriate Mother's Day gift; cute, noisy, and super inconvenient.