There is a sacred link between homeschooling and having chickens -- it's a documented fact. From the fundamentalists to the hipsters, those that embrace homeschooling embrace poultry.
As an ignoramus, I did not know that this sacred connection existed. I did know (boy oh boy did I know) that for the past two years I've had to listen to twenty billion chicken facts a day, and I had to suffer through many an uncomfortable social scene when my son would be asked questions -- questions that in no way could be connected back to chickens -- and he would somehow concoct answers that included chickens ("So, do you like sports?" "Not really. I like chickens." "Can you hand me two pencils?" "Two is a number. Seven is also a number. Did you know that there are seven colors that Silkies can be?"). When I started reading articles about homeschooling and kept coming across references to chickens I felt a mixture of validation/having found our tribe, and being slightly ruffled -- like when you've been listening to a band for a few years and then all of a sudden some young poser acts like he "found" the band. On one hand we weren't so weird; on the other hand we were once again just another construct.
Unique or no, the boy didn't care. He has remained loyal to chickens -- chickens for chickens sake. Last summer when we started talking about the details of the scheme he asked if we could have chicks for a bit. Why would this even seem like an option in an NYC apartment on the 27th floor? Because a neat family that we know has a home upstate with chickens, and in the Spring they buy chicks and keep them in their apartment in the city until they are big enough to add to their flock. They were kind enough last Spring to invite us over to meet their chicks. The Girl was tickled; The Boy was empowered.
So what did I answer when he asked if the scheme could include chicks? I said that we would try. Who knew when I said that that the year would fly by so quickly?
Thank goodness for my friend who, knowing that I had made a promise, contacted me to tell me that they had their chicks, and wondered: should they get some for us the next time they went upstate? Full stop. How nice is that? I had "chicks" in April in my mental calendar (my mental calendar is linked to my self preservation, and so very likely might have kept pushing "chicks" into the next month indefinitely). If she hadn't contacted me I might have missed the chick window, and while my farm-animal-in-the-apartment-quota would have remained intact, I would have had a very sad little boy. As it was, she and I worked out a much more manageable plan than us getting a ton of equipment and having the chicks here for weeks... We would just borrow her chicks (and their stuff) for a few days. Full stop. How nice is that?
I'll tell you how nice it is: really nice. I wouldn't have known just how nice before I experienced how much downey happiness they bring into the home. Granted -- I didn't really want them. I'm kind of afraid of animals -- their sudden movements, their glassy eyes, their excrement... Bird flu. SARS. And I feel kind of stressed about being their steward (I'm so worried that something is going to happen to them -- for the amount of times I woke up last night to check on them I might as well have a newborn in the house). But I will be the first to admit that when The Dad brought them into the house in their travel (i.e. get-past-the-doormen) box, their sweet chirps instantly endeared me to them.
The kids are smitten. We knew that The Boy would be high on his heroine of choice, but The Girl, like me, was won over by their little chirrups. At one point today she stopped what she was doing, cocked her ear, and said with the sweetest little sigh, "Oh, how I love that sound."
The fact that the children of that family allowed the children of our family to foster their six feathered friends during their last week in the city touches me. I hope that they know what a sweet gift they have given us. A gift that my boy and girl will always remember. The Boy was crawling into my bed before it was fully light this morning, and whispering to me about what the chickens were doing in their little bed under their heat lamp. I wish that I had seen him sitting in the pre-morning light observing them. I wish that I had been awake enough to hear everything that he said, but I definitely heard that the words were coming from somewhere content and smiling. The Girl hates leaving the apartment because she misses the chicks so much when she's away ("Just knowing that they're here makes me happy.").
We need to talk about the plastic gloves, don't we? I wish that I could photoshop them out, so nobody would know about my freakishness. All I can say is this: we all do the best that we can with the limitations that we are given. It goes against every fiber of my being to let my kids hold animals that contentedly nestle down in their own poo. In my neurotic world, that could have been a valid reason to not host the slumber party, or a reason to not let them hold them, but I tried to stay present in my children's world where living things are to be caressed and cuddled. We reached a compromise: the gloves. This week of the chickens will be one that they always remember, and I'm really hoping that those memories are largely of soft rustles, and sweet chirrups, and less of my spastic anal flutterings and barked commands ("Do NOT touch your face!").
It did not snow this year on Christmas, but it did snow the night when The Dad was traveling through the city towards our apartment with a box of hushed flapping and muted trilling. Gifts keep coming.
