By Nettie H. Francis
Yes, it’s true. I have chickens in my kitchen. I’ll admit
that our dining room is spacious, but when we have eight people at the table, two babies perched in their high chairs, and ten chickens pecking around in their little home, things get a bit crazy.

Take this morning, for example. After the kids left for school, I put the babies in their high chairs for their breakfast squash. Feeding one baby is tricky. Times that experience by two and things are downright messy. With one bowl of squash, two spoons, two zealous babies and two “helpful” preschoolers, my kitchen was a slight disaster.
Right in the middle of this yellow, pumpkin mess I heard a loud peeping. There was Pooka, the largest chicken, perched on top of the chicken barrel.

“Just watch me,” Pooka seemed to say, and took a flying leap, landing on the floor at my feet. With squash bowl in hand, I danced around the squawking chicken as my toddler yelled, “A chicken’s out! A chicken’s out!” After a few cha-cha-cha steps, I got the squash bowl safely onto the table. “I’ll block the hallway,” shrieked my preschooler as I commenced chasing the chicken around and under the table. After a bit more prancing—to the entertainment of my squash-covered twins—I finally planted the flailing chicken safely back in the barrel.

This delightful drama began last year when we bought a home with two acres. The boys immediately started planning their farm. Since I can’t cope with animals AND twins in the same year, I talked the kids out of the goat, the cow, the horses, the pigs, the dog and the cat for at least a few months. But…I agreed to the chickens.

For Christmas the boys found two gift cards to Home Depot under the tree—courtesy of Grammy and Grandpa. The next day they set out, looking at wood and chicken wire, making measurements, and drawing up plans. Our garage turned into a wood shop during Christmas break, and our cars were parked out in the snow—but all in the good name of the forthcoming chicken coop. Actually, after all of the sawing and hammering was finished, it was more like a castle. We dubbed it the “Taj MaCoop.” The boys painted it red—barn red—and moved it outside.

During Spring Break we heard that it was “Chick Days” at the farm store, so we all drove to town. There they were—two rows of feed tubs filled with soft, fluffy peeps. Yellow, brown, red, black, and white cotton balls pecking at feed.

“Can we please buy the chickens today?” the children begged. But I wasn’t about to add to my own brood yet.
“Do your research,” my husband calmed then, “and we’ll come back next week.”

The following days were spent reading “chicken books” and making a list of which breeds they wanted. Since the farm store got a new shipment of chicks every Monday, family night seemed like the perfect time to go pick up the chickens. On Monday morning, we sent four ecstatic children out the door to school.

“Only 8 more hours ‘til we get the chicks” my son smiled back at us. The excitement in the air rivaled the day our twins were born.

After school, the children went to work cutting a plastic water barrel in half to make a temporary home in our dining room.

“Are we for sure getting the chickens today?” my son kept asking.

“Yes,” my busy husband responded. “They’ll be here today for sure!”

When everything was ready we piled into the van and laughed and chattered as we drove the few miles to the farm store…and stopped. The parking lot was empty. The outside displays had been locked down. The doors were closed. Pulling up to the front we checked the sign. Open from 10am – 6pm. We were 15 minutes late. There was a moment of silence, and then sniffing, whimpering and finally sobbing as the terrible truth set in. Stunned, we slowly drove home, unloaded the empty chick box and sat in the house looking at the vacant water barrel—ten people and no chicks. The disappointment was too much. Finally my 9-year-old daughter wiped her eyes.

“All day long I just kept thinking, ‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,’” she said. “And we did.”
The following morning, we made another plan. My husband left work early, my son skipped swim team and I kept the babies up from their naps. At 4pm we trooped into the store.

Armed with notebook, budget sheet, and pencils the children announced to the clerk, “We’d like ten chicks please.” It took an hour to select the right breeds, and then we were at the check register: ten people, three carts, a bushel of feed, one bag of sawdust, one water bottle, one feeder, one heat lamp, and ten chicks. The boys counted out their money and it was done.

At home, everyone forgot about dinner until the chicks were safely inside their home with food, water, and saw dust. By the time dessert was served all ten of the chicks had names: Henny Penny, Star, Thomas, Blackie, Redwall, Pooka, Blanket, Flower, Pepper and Snowball.

No one wanted to wash dishes, no one wanted to fold laundry, no one wanted to do homework. They just looked at, petted and held the tiny, soft chicks. At bedtime, the boys carried the chicken home downstairs and put it in the corner of their room. At 9:30 I peeked in. The boys were asleep, but the chickens were up scuttling around under the warm light. Their soft peeping added a contented, comforting feeling to our home.

And so, despite the occasional drama, (and the need to ‘cut the apron strings’ a bit sooner on the indoor chickens) the next time the children ask about animals, I may agree more quickly. Food, water, shelter, and plenty of love—ingredients for happy families, ingredients for happy farms. Not much difference between chickens and children.

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