Four.

It's here. Colin is finally turning four. I honestly questioned whether we would make it or not.

Three has been a hellish ride of tantrums and cuddles. One minute he's beggin for hugs and kisses and the next minute he's pulling a chunk of my hair out while screaming that he hates me. 

But I see a change. I see him beginning to boil over but trying not to. I can see him trying to think before he speaks. Trying to "get a hold of himself," as he calls it. Tantrums don't happen every day. There is a day or two reprise, and I'm grateful. 

He is so proud of turning four. He wants to be a big boy, and for some reason, he has decided four is that mile marker. He is smart and confident. He loves an audience. He has an intense need to be loved. In the middle of a tantrum, he will scream, "I need a hug. And. A. KISS!"  However angry we are at each other, somewhere in that three, about to be four, wisdom, he knows that we just need to stop and love each other. 

Smart cookie, that one. 

This time four years ago, I was waiting out labor at home. Waiting for contractions. Pretending I might make it all night by going to bed. My water had broken at noon, so we waited. At 2:45, we left for the Birth Center. By 5:30, he was born. Around noon, be came back home and united our family of five. 

Colin Henry, you complete us. You are hard work. You are tons of laughs. You are challenging and rewarding. You are my daddy made over. You are 100% unique and your own self. 

I love you.

Not laughing

Eight days in and I'm working hard on my resolutions. I've played piano, even *gasp* practiced, every day. And, of course, on the seventh day, a key broke. The A below Middle C. Number 37. One of my favorites. Sigh. Isn't that how this decade has been? We resolve to do better, get further, be more. We make plans and set goals, only to find that the universe has much different ideas. From new jobs to cancer to crazy people to whatever else, life keeps throwing things at us. We keep ducking. We keep getting pegged anyway. That key. Both pieces I'm working on are in a minor. So funny, universe. So very funny. Pardon me while I don't laugh.

Project Birthday Party

Christmas, check.

New Years, check.

That can only mean one thing. It's time for Project Birthday Party.

This past year, I swore that I would just have a simple party at some place with a bunch of inflatable things that kids can jump on and slide down. Of course, that's not happening. I just can't resist a theme.

The first hint came on Instagram the other day. 

Not too hard to guess if you have had a kid in your house anytime in the past 10 years. Here's clue number two:

There is much to do. Many platypli to cut out for a platypus search. Many 2 liter bottles to collect for science experiments. Many cupcakes to make. Many many things to do. Seriously. You only turn 6 and 4 once in your life. Why spend it in a well santitized bounce house? I'll probably have a very valid answer to that question the day after this party.

Our Year

Fresh start. I'm a big fan of fresh starts. Some would say it's because I don't usually finish things. Not me. I wouldn't say

Resolutions come easy in my head, but I don't like them. I don't like making promises I know I can't keep. Unless you are my youngest son. Apparently, making promises I can't keep have driven us into a cycle of arguments and tantrums that just can't be beat.

There are things I want to be doing that I'm not doing though. Like writing. Hello, month of November that I just totally quit writing. I want to write. Not just for epic reasons, but for the everyday. The little things. Like how Colin became obsessed with IceMan from Spiderman and his Amazing Friends from the 19EIGHTY's. It was the only thing he asked Santa to bring. Thanks to eBay, Santa brought a vintage action figure which Colin now stores in the freezer. Because where else would IceMan want to reside?

Stay cool, IceMan.

Music. Since I can't seem to finish anything there, I'm simply resolving to play my piano everyday. Be it a scale or two, a little Chopin, or getting back to those Beethoven sonatas, or a song or two -whatever. If I can get my butt up to the studio at least once a day, then I imagine it's going to be easier to make some music.

Sugar. It's my mortal enemy. I'm sad or angry, and I turn to sugar. The sugar gives me an instant relief, but then I feel shitty a few hours later. Not to mention the weight I've gained back. Which makes me sad and angry, so I have a donut. Like a dummy. So back on Weight Watchers I go. I have to be accountable to something since I don't seem to deem myself important enough to take care of in a healthy way.

Sewing. Consistently. Not just in a rush. Use what I have and stop buying fabric because it's pretty. I'm so excited about the craft fair that my friend Rachael and I did in December, and I want to do more of those. It was fun, and I felt good about earning money again.

Specraftular and Tweetly Homemade's booth at Holly Days

Caring. For my family. For my animals. For myself. I have to start caring in a more active fashion. Patience. Laundry. Understanding. Clean sheets.Yoga. Less sugar. More real food. These are things that I want to give myself and my family. It shouldn't be hard. I just need to focus.

Focus.

I have so much. These are my children.

This is my husband.

These are my animals.

And this? This is our year.

Over coffee

She came into Starbucks and immediately saw someone she knew. Two Raleigh Bob's connecting over their red Starbucks cups and a noisy wash of "I haven't seen you in so long"s. She's a jewelry maker. Her friend, the one in a meeting across from me, gushed to her colleague about how talented she was.

Then, she said, "This is my dad."

She introduced a man who probably used to be taller than her. His face was the face of a man who obviously used to be healthier. His cheekbones were over pronounced. His shoulders slumped. He spoke softly, but I heard him. He said, "I do like to eat."

The women laughed. He smiled. He still had it.

It was the baseball hat that got me. The random baseball hat that didn't go with the crisp blue jeans that were being cinched to him on the last belt loop. The baseball hat that was a little too casual for the collared shirt he had most definitely had help tucking in before he left home.

The hat was what brought my daddy zooming in this morning - his absence blowing through me like the coldest blast of wind rushing in each time someone opens the door to which I sat to close.

I miss him.

I wished that I could pick him up; take him on my errands with me; stop for coffee; spend the day doing mundane things.

In the end, I only stared, batting back a few tears. I stopped short of leaning over the table and grabbing the woman with the Raleigh Bob and telling her how lucky she was. For all I know, she's quite aware of how lucky she is.

I hope so.

Holiday pajamas available on Etsy!

Holiday pajamas are in season in my Etsy shop! In November, they are only $30 a pair. December, they will go up to $35. Still a bargain, right? 

Little flannel pants with soft, monogrammed t-shirts. Add your kiddos, and you'll have the cutest Christmas pictures on the Facebook timeline in 2013.

Many many thanks to my friend Erin for the fist bump over at her blog, A Parenting Production. Her littles are next up to receive matching jammies for the holidays. 

You know, the whole family can get involved. Last year, I even had Papa in matching pants. It's great fun, and the kids love matching with Mama and Daddy. Cheesy? Sure. But most of the best things about Christmas are.

Gig

This is what I was doing tonight. A gig in Wilson with a group I've been with around ten years now. I love them like family. 

Playing music with a group is a deeply personal thing for me. I have to trust the other members completely. I've grown past feeling like I need to have close friendships wtb anyone I am in a band with, but the fact remains that I would do anything for anyone of them at the drop of a hat. 

The drummer is going to Ethiopia in about seven hours. He teaches kids all over the world how to make beats. It's pretty awesome. 

That was random. I know. 

Anyway, it was a good show, and now that our flute player has spent the night in our house, Colin has declared her part of our family. And that's totally fine by me. 

We would like to play more, but for now, we'll take what we can get. It's just good to get to play with really great people. 

The truth

I'm terrible at blogging everyday. 

It's true. 

Kettle balls for shoes

My whole aspiring to go to bed earlier, spend more time engaged with my kids. And getting ready for craft fairs is making NaMoBloMoFo not really work for me so far.

I need a new groove.

I can, however, tell you that I saw one of the oddest performances last night. Kembra Pfahler. She was painted red, wore kettle balls on her feet, had hair teased up the circumference if Saturn, and crawled onto the stage to give her seemingly improvised performance of a song about Bladerunner, the director's cut. 

Yeah. I'm so over art school. 

Dang near missed it

Tired. So many feels. Got to go out tonight and hear some music. Somebody that I used to know. It was weird. 

Too much for now. 

Sleepy. 

Dress up

Every year, I have made my boys' Halloween costumes. It's one of the main reasons I wanted to start sewing. A little trip down the aisles of Target last week though, and Christopher's eyes widened. His voice could barely squeak out,

"Mama. Whoa. Look at that Woooooolverine."

We had already made his costume for this year. He didn't need one, and I wasn't about to spend $20 on a store bought costume. I told him that if it was still there after Halloween, we could buy it on clearance.

I had no intentions of making it back in time to check. I know. Evil Mama.

However, this morning, I had to go pick up a prescription (you're welcome everyone who has to deal with me on a daily basis), so I wandered back through the last row of Halloween things. The sign said "70% OFF." There were two Wolverine costumes left. Both in the right size.

Here's the thing. They didn't need them. But they weren't just 70% off, they were 90% off. So for $4, I had two of the most excited little boys you have ever seen. They are currently sleeping in their Wolverine costumes (sans masks and claws, thank you very much). And they will play dress up, adding this character to the closet full of Iron Man, Spiderman, Captain America, Jake the pirate, Cubby the other pirate, and Indiana Jones.

They love it, and I love watching them.

To top it all off, I picked up a Ninja Turtle and Superman to wrap up for Christmas.

Who says little boys don't like to play dress up?

Dojo Mama

We've become a karate family. The boys and I arrive at the dojo at least three times a week. Usually, we are there around an hour and a half. Christopher is a Deputy Stripe belt (I think. Whatever comes before Green), and Colin has just started in the Little Samurai program.

It is the last thing I thought my boys would do. Well, maybe not the very last, but definitely not the first. It's just that martial arts were never on my radar. Ever.

Last year, when Christopher started asking to take karate lessons, my first thought was to find somewhere that he could "just try out." We signed him up with a pass from a friend at the dojo where their son takes lessons. It was obvious by the second week that this was something he really enjoyed and something he could really benefit from.

All of the sudden, we were signing a year long contract. For a four year old.

Of course, that's not anything I never asked of parents when I was teaching piano. It's a good way to make sure that parents are committed to the program, and while it's nice to let your children try things out, it's better to teach them that there are things in life which take time to learn. Like a musical instrument. Or karate.

So I sit in the dojo, giving up our free time to let our boys be coached, mentored, and taught by the many instructors there. Sure, some days I wish that we could just head to the park with some friends. And I know that some days Christopher is really tired and would like to just come home and recharge quietly and alone, but if he's going to karate, he is happy about it
.

It's been good for them. Colin is only a month in and already asks every morning if he gets to go to karate that day. They are happy to be there, and as long as their coffee machine keeps working, I'm happy to be there too.

Salvaged Jewelry and branching out

Today I did something I've never done before. I hosted a trunk show (and it should be noted that I just accidentally typed "truck show" which is also something I've never done). Sales events masquerading as parties have never set well with me. I mean, as a seasoned introvert, I like to do my shopping online. Usually sans pants. And bra. And with a Diet Coke to my left. And free shipping.

However, when jewelry artist Melissa McLawhorn put out an invitation to host a trunk show for her Etsy shop, Salvaged Jewelry, I couldn't resist. Melissa creates jewelry from recycled things that would probably otherwise end up in the landfill. Pages from an algebra book end up as a pendent on a necklace. The plastic covering for florescent light fixtures adorn matchbook covers in a bracelet.

It's all quite brilliant really.

Some friends came by. I made some snacks. We all did a little shopping. It was fun. Melissa gave me an awesome necklace as a thank you gift - it is purple and features resistors on it. Which is quite perfect for me, as I'm constantly picking up resistors in the studio as Kevin works on building gear.

The crafty part of being an artist doesn't come easy for me. Give me a piano and microphone and I'll be right at home on a stage in front of 10,000 people. It's easy, and I love it.

Opening an Etsy shop last year? Scared me to death. What if I made something and no one liked it? What if it didn't hold up? Who am I to think that people would actually want to spend money on something I've made?

Then, I realized I needed to do something to support this fabric habit I've developed. I set up shop and waited for magic.

Not much has happened. I've sold a few things. Been burned once by someone not following through on a big order. But mainly, it's just given me encouragement to keep making things. And we all know I'm happiest when I'm making something. The creative process and all.

This year, I'm taking it one step further. My friend Rachael and I are going to do a couple of craft fairs together. The first one is coming up in a couple of weekends, and I have to admit - I'm really nervous. Packaging and presentation are not my strong suits, and I really want our booth to look good - be inviting.

If you are in the area, you can come visit us and bring me Starbucks to calm my nerves. Or just come see us. We will be at the Holiday Sip & Shop hosted by Vend Raleigh on November 15 and then at Sanderson High School's Holly Days on December 8 and 9. And? If no one buys anything I've made? Then I'll at least know that I have the kindest, most generous friends who have put up with the creations I've made their children for the past five years - which isn't such a bad trade off, right?

Joining the Rainbow Loom cult

Two hours of this, and I'm telling you, the drink doesn't need to be Diet Coke. Who thought this torture device up anyway?

Christopher finished his first bracelet, wore it proudly for about 30 minutes, then promptly gave it to a cute girl. My little dude. He is such the love. 

But really? More than the basic bracelet? I'm not sure I have time to go there. Halp.

It's November, when we blog everyday

So as to not ruin NaBloPoMoFo on the very first day, I give you my two youngest in not-a-box. It's a pirate ship, in case you are wondering. 

More writing, less adorable filler to come . . .

When your best friend has cancer; Long distance love

A few weeks ago, I posted about what to do or say when your best friend learns she has cancer. It seemed that many people read and took those words to heart, and I want to make sure that it is clear: I am speaking from hindsight. Much of this I got wrong. I wasn't really very good at it, but I tried to pay attention and learn from my mistakes. 

When you live five hours away, it's hard to give advice for the everyday. Impossible really. Susan was so lucky to have a strong church community, school community, blogger community, and some really awesome friends who organized her meals, her childcare, and her transportation when needed. She also has the most amazing husband, parents, and in-laws who stepped in. The only things I know about supporting your friend in person when they are in cancer treatment are these:

• Don't show up sick. Don't show up if you've been sick in the past week. Don't show up if anyone in your house is sick. Germs are the absolute worst thing to bring them.
• When you want to help - have an idea. Don't call and say, "Let me know what I can do to help." They shouldn't have to think about it. If you have a skill or an opportunity, then step in and do something. Don't put it off on your friend to think up something for you to feel useful.
• And please - don't say that her problems make you rethink your own life or make you feel badly for having less life threatening problems. It's annoying to be the barometer of how much someone else's life sucks.

If you live five hours away, it's easy to think that you are useless, and that's not true. In fact, it's a little easier for you to be that person with whom your friend can still be "normal." When you aren't seeing the treatment first hand, it's a little easier for you to be the one who can still call and ask for help with your uncontrollable three year old. 

You can be the one who still needs her. And trust me, she needs to still be needed.

It felt selfish to me - to call and cry to her about my problems. What I learned though, was that in crying to her about my problems, she knew that I still saw her as my friend, Susan. Not my friend with cancer. 

Again, it's about living. The more you focus on the cancer with your friend, the more the cancer takes over. She needs people to still be who they were with her so that she can still be herself. If the cancer is terminal, then you both know it's going to take her life in the end - don't let it take her being while she is still here and breathing.

There will be times when you want to know what is going on with her treatment, and that is alright. Tell her that you would like an update when she is ready to give you one. Remember that she needs time to process information from the doctors and to go over it with her family. She will tell you want she needs you to know in her own time.

Living apart doesn't mean that you never see each other though. Get in the car, on a plane, or on a train and get there. This is the one area where I don't recommend trying to maintain the norm. Get there. Every chance you have to see her that you don't take will be time that you regret. Trust me on that one. Get there every single chance that you can. Take your children with you so that they can know her. Spend time with her children so that they can know you. Be friends with her partner - after all, you chose the same person as the bomb diggity. Of course, I already adored Susan's husband, so that last one was easy, but you get the point.

The phone line only goes so far. Make your choices wisely. Sacrifice. Get there. Because if you are life long best friends, then you may be one of the only people she feels like she can stay in her jammies around. She knows that if she needs to nap, you will amuse yourself or wash the dishes. She knows that she doesn't have to be strong around you - that you can and will handle her pain and her sorrow - because it's what you do for each other.

You won't be doing anything for her that she hasn't done for you all along - it's just in the context of cancer now.

When your best friend has breast cancer

It's October. Tis the season for everything pumpkin and oceans of pink vomited upon every product known to mankind.

It's October. Tis the season for me to think about Susan twice as much everyday and remember the one equation my astrophysicist best friend taught me that I actually understood:

ACTION > AWARENESS

There isn't much that I can add about what you can do during October that hasn't already been said. Susan said it best, of course, and new voices are rising all the time to remind us that living with breast cancer isn't made any easier by us posting the color of our bras on Facebook or not wearing a bra on October 13. 

What I can add is something for the friends of women living with breast cancer. It's something that I've wanted to write about for years now, but I realized that I wasn't really that great at it, and certainly didn't have enough knowledge to fill a book.

I can tell you what I did wrong, and maybe think of something I got right.

In the beginning . . .

One night, your best friend calls you on the phone. She has a three year old and a five month old. You are pregnant with your first child. Conversations had turned from babies to breast cancer over the past week because her mother-in-law had just been diagnosed and was about to start treatment. With you being the child of a breast cancer survivor, she turned to you to answer questions about helping a family member and dealing with telling the children. 

Only this night, she says, "In my internet research about breast cancer, I found something. Something called Inflammatory Breast Cancer." 

"I've never heard of it," I reply.

"I think I have it," she says slowly.

Here's where you can go right or wrong. 

Wrong thing to say, "Oh, Sus. There's no way you have breast cancer. You have no family history. You're breastfeeding. You're only 34. I'm sure it's just mastitis."

No. Don't do that. Don't dismiss a friend's concerns. Don't slide down a tear filled slope of worry with them, but don't dismiss them. EVER.

Right thing to say, "Wow. That must be scaring you. Have you made an appointment to have it checked? Do you need me to go with you?"

Listen.

Support.

Encourage.

After the initial diagnosis . . .

There will be a diagnosis. A diagnosis is not answers. Let me say that again. The diagnosis creates more questions that you can ever imagine. It does NOT provide answers.

Your best friend will tell you the diagnosis even before she has fully processed the news fully herself. There will be silence on the phone. Stay in it. Stay with her.

Wrong thing to do next is pepper her with questions, "What will they do? Is there treatment? Have you told the kids?"

A question you could ask are, "Do you need me to come?" 

Right thing to do next is possibly cry with her. Calmly. It might be to curse. It might be to apologize for saying the wrong thing the day before. You won't know exactly until you - 

Listen.

Support.

Encourage.

The thing is, with a diagnosis of Inflammatory Breast Cancer in particular, everything about what you thought you knew of the future is gone. The appointment you thought would give you answers, the one where you get your diagnosis? That appointment only turns everything into uncertainty.

Living in uncertainty is one of the hardest things to ask someone to do. 

Asking a billion questions of someone living in uncertainty is never helpful. Don't do it.

Something right I learned along the way was to ask in the first couple of minutes of our conversations, "What do you want to talk about? Life or cancer?" 

Most of the time, the answer was "life."

Because really, what your best friend with a new cancer diagnosis wants more than anything? Is to live. 

So do it. Live with her.

Listen.

Support.

Encourage.

Chicken socialization

Chickens are weird.

Granted, so many many species want to eat chickens. If I were a chicken, I would be freaked out all the time too.

I'm not sure how to help them understand that I'm not going to eat them. It would probably help if I kept the dogs from chasing them. Poor Mrs. Weasley lost another mouthful of feathers when Macy Moo slipped by me on Saturday. That fat dog can haul ass when there is a chicken running from her.

But I love the chickens. Even though they are weird. And skiddish. And cause me to have nightmares about finding their poor chicken bodies mauled in the yard by a hawk.

The chickens and I might just be kindred spirits in anxiety.

Professor McGonagall definitely does not want a kiss.

I keep trying though. I'm told that the way to help the chickens get to know you is to keep picking them up. You have to catch them in order to do that though, so I spend great amounts of time bent over, arms outstretched, sneaking around behind chickens. 

Bonnie Raitt might have been singing about chickens when she sang, "I can't make you love me." 

Only time, and the crick in my back, will tell.

First or second day of kindergarten. Hell if I know.

"Here, Christopher. Try this backpack on and see if it's too heavy for you."

It was the night before what I considered Christopher's second day of kindergarten, but was apparently his first day of kindergarten because the other first day of kindergarten was just a trial run, and I was supposed to figure out that it didn't count as a first day since he wasn't in his real classroom with his real teacher on the fake first day.

Christopher on his fake first day of kindergarten.

We had lugged the first batch of school supplies to the second open house (which was the real kindergarten open house, the first open house was just a preview) last week. It was heavy, but we managed to carry it on our walk.

Last night, the backpack contained his three ring binder, a pack of colored pencils, a ream of white paper, a ream of colored card stock, his towel for rest time, and his Mickey Mouse (also for rest time).

It was damn heavy.

He was damn determined to carry it.

He wiggled his arms into the straps and stood up, slightly convex, and proceeded to strut around the kitchen. His chest was out like a rooster, partly from pride, but mostly from the weight of his load.

"See, Mama? My strong muscles can handle it," he crowed.

"I don't know, Sweetheart. You know, I'm not going to walk you in tomorrow. I'm just dropping you off in the carpool line because I have to get Colin to school too. I think I'll take out the paper. We can take it the next day when I can help you."

"NO! I can do it, Mama!"

"Alright. You can do it. It's not that long of a walk to your room. I know you're strong."

This morning, I slip a small package of fruit snacks and a Capri Sun into the front pocket of his backpack. That snack was apparently the proverbial straw.

As we waited our turn in the carpool lane, I had Christopher climb into the front seat so I could help him into his backpack, and because he was sitting on the wrong side of the car for the carpool lane. I eased his little arms into the straps of his Superman backpack and tried to kiss him goodbye.

It fell off.

The door opened.

We weren't ready.

Oh, shit! We were holding up the carpool lane!

I shoved his arms back into the backpack and told him to jump out.

That is one literal kid. He bounced out of the Jeep. When his feet hit the ground, the weight of that backpack, after inserting one fruit snack treat and a Capri Sun, sent him rolling backwards onto the ground.

He lay on his backpack, arms flailing and legs kicking like a turtle, unable to right himself. I was stuck behind the driver's seat with my eyes wide, mouth hung open, and completely mortified that I had turtled my poor child with school supplies.

From the ground I heard, "MAMA! Why did you put so much in my backpack???"

Luckily, because first impressions don't matter one bit, THE PRINCIPAL rushed over to help him up. She picked up his backpack and said, "Whoa. This is really heavy."

"It's the fruit snacks," I said.

Mother of the Year. Don't even apply for it. It's all me.

Coming home to roost

I have a lot to learn about chickens. And dogs. And not mixing chickens and dogs.

The boys and I brought home our first two chickens yesterday. We drove out to Pittsboro to Hickory Chickery and purchased two Buff Orpington pullets. They are about four months old, but aren't laying yet. However, they are both most definitely hens, and that's what I wanted to start with since we can't have roosters in the city limits. And I don't want roosters. Even though they are gorgeous.

I digress.

Even with trying to keep the chicken cost down as much as possible, I still ended up buying a little carrier to bring them home. I was going to just use a box or a laundry basket, but since we are going to get some chicks in a month or so, I went ahead and bought a small crate.

I think they were pretty cozy.

Meet Mrs. Weasly and Professor McGonagall

Let me stop here and say, I have the nicest dogs. Two of them are bird dogs, granted, but they are old and incredibly sweet. The third is little and a feisty when it comes to squirrels, so I was planning on keeping a good eye on her. But the others? They are such nice dogs.

Nice dogs eat chickens too.

I brought the chickens through the house and let Gibby, the Lab, and Macy, the little dog, sniff and say hello. They wagged their tails and completely fooled me into thinking that they happy to have new friends.

We ventured out into the backyard, and I let the girls out, sending Gibby into some kind of primal hunting dog frenzy. Poor Mrs. Weasly became the target, and Gibby was going to have chicken for dinner. 

Macy Moo and I joined in the chase, Macy just to have fun, and me, screaming, "NO! GIBBY! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I caught up to him just as he got a half a mouthful of feathers. Nearly tackling him, I grabbed his collar and started dragging him to the backdoor, yelling to Christopher to go get Macy Moo away from poor Mrs. Weasly.

On the deck, Macy had chased Mrs. Weasly into a corner, and Gibby had slipped out of his collar right at the back door. I managed to scoop Macy up with one hand and tuck her under my arm. Then, with my knees and my body, I corralled Gibby inside while issuing the dreaded, "Bad Boy. Bad Boy, Gibby."

I gently picked up Mrs. Weasly from the corner of the deck, where she was willing herself to be way smaller so she could fit through the railings. We sat down together, and I checked her for any wounds (there were none) while I sang her one of my boys' lullabies. 

Then, we went to the back corner of the yard where Professor McGonagall had her head shoved through the chain link fence, simultaneously delighted that she wasn't being chased by a 100 pound dog and horrified that she had been brought to such a savage new home. 

She's still kind of pissed at me.

Other than that, they are settling in nicely. We will have to split backyard time instead of having the Utopian dog and chicken playground that I made up in my ridiculous head. But that's alright. I finally have my chickens, and I already love them.

Because, let's face it, I'm more than a little bit crazy.

Mrs. Weasly after a soothing lullaby.

Professor McGonagall snuggling in right on top.