There comes that inevitable day in every mother's life when her little chicks must move up and out. Mine has arrived, and so I bravely donned my crocs, tucked a tissue in my pocket, and moved those messy, slightly stinky chickens into their own home. So long laundry room; hello coop. I will say, it went well. I kept a stiff upper lip, and I'm fairly certain my girls don't miss their cramped quarters or the daily sound of the spin cycle. We'd been practicing in preparation, and the last few days, I've kept the chicks outside in the fresh air and sunshine. However, they would return each night to the safety of their little cage and heat lamp. After tracking down a bale of wheat straw, I made their new digs as warm and cozy as possible, and banished them forever to the great wild suburban backyard.
My resolve was immediately tested. No sooner had I committed myself to the new arrangement than a storm moved in. Flash flooding, straight, 60 mile an hour winds, lightning. I debated rescuing them, but a kind, firm "no" and long-distance hand-holding from my dad helped us all weather the storm realistically. Next came night with no red, warm light. Just a dark, lonely coop. I'll admit that I checked on them once, maybe twice, ok 4-5 times before turning in, but alas, the sun rose again and my girls are officially chickens.
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