Two died two days ago, I'm pretty sure from exploding butt. (Don't ask). So now K wipes every chick's bum with a wet washcloth to prevent further deaths.
I am pretty much in charge of the feed/water thing, and between the chicks and my backyard's devastation, feeding the chickens has gone from a pleasant chore to something i have to steel myself for. These chicks are CRAZY. They act completely voracious, all the time, and fly at me with starving indignation the minute I open the door, even though they get topped off twice a day.
My children have been reminding me of the chicks these last few days. Maybe it's because I'm tired, because K is still not up to snuff and it worries me, because the store is opening in ten days and my anxiety level is several notches higher than usual. Whatever the reason, it's been harder to even attempt the Zen Mama mode I usually aim for, and while I think I'm still holding it together for/in front of them, there's a fairly unpleasant running commentary in my head along the lines of "ahh! hush! I would sell my pinkies for an hour where NO BODY SPOKE/screamed/wailed/whined/repeated the same phrase over and over and over until I repeat it back!"
In that light, I paged through the New Yorker this morning while eating breakfast alone with the kids (because somehow K sleeps in six out of seven days? There are prices to pay for having a handy husband who fulfills dreams) and a study on happiness said that most American mothers rank napping and jogging as more happiness-making than caring for their children. Washing the dishes was only slightly lower.
Damn, I get that. (Note-- CARING for children, not HAVING children. Vastly different, happiness-wise.)
So. The kids are great. K's ok. I wish he would feel better, and I know he does too. I wish we had a day to chill out at home-- alone-- and mow the lawn and take a nap. I wish I could get over being Ms Queen Crankypants. Because I'm lucky, and blessed, and I know that.
I just get grumpy anyhow.