I can’t even remember the last time this happened.
I had the house to myself on Saturday. Something that with 6 kids (even 6 older kids) is virtually unheard of. Between the regional FIRST (robotic) competition and PAXEast (a video gamers’ convention) both in the Boston area, I found myself with only Pippin in our house (and the flock out back.)
For the entire day.
I decided to not waste a minute and only do what makes me happy. (Okay I did do some laundry, but I justified it by saying that clean clothes make me happy, actually they make me very happy.)
I wrote for a few hours on a manuscript project that was near completion.
And then I went to a local fantastic Easter egg hunt where they hid the eggs along a wildflower trail for the kids. I snagged a few eggs to get some photos.
After that I stopped at a local farm stand, looked at the flowers and got some drunken cheese – sheep cheese soaked in red wine – this stuff is glorious and is our new found passion to put on top of pasta.
I went home, wrote for a few more hours and finished the final draft of my manuscript. It’s the story of my first year with chickens and children and the lessons I’ve learned.
And it’s done.
It now goes to a final edit and then I’ll be ready to push that baby out of this nest to start work on the next project which has already been started (hey, writers write.)
So when you’ve had a productive day, seen beauty, and have completed something you’ve been working on for ages, what do you do?
Why you go out and celebrate.
Which is exactly what I did.
***
Wendy Thomas writes about the lessons learned while raising children and chickens in New Hampshire. Contact her at Wendy@SimpleThrift.com
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Lessons Learned from the Flock 
A rogue, tacky Easter Egg hunt is rather legenday – perhaps notorious would be a better word, in our family. My wife and I, then in our twenties had just moved to Seattle with our daughter (then about four years old) to Seattle from Los Angeles. When Easter arrived, we took our daughter to an “Easter Egg hunt” at Seattle Center, a big civic center, once built for the 1962 World’s Fair. “Toad” (as I am a terrible father I bestowed this affectionate nickname on her when she was about four years old) was looking forward to the Easter egg hunt. At home, she loved painting eggs and searching for eggs we had concealed around our apartment. She was looking forward to searching through the grass and bushes and buildings of the fairgrounds with other children.
Unfortunately, even in thos early days (1960s) corruption and decline had ruined the world, which was no longer a “Garden of Eden” and innocent delight. Instead of innocent fun, the organizers of the hunt had made a pile of eggs and candy, roping it off with cords. (If I had been more suspicious, I would have spotted that the cords made the situation look like a ‘Crime Scene Investigation.”
Many parents and their eager children gathered around the “crime scene tape,” barrier, eager to participate. My daughter began to tremble, not with eagerness, but with fear. Finally, the man in charge of the egg hunt blew a whistle, the cords and tape were yanked away, and with a ravening scream of anticipation hundreds of children stampeded into the pile of eggs and candy and grabbed as much as they could and began running with their loot and devouring as much candy as they could. Our daughter stood still in horrified terror, burst into screams, and started running as fast as her little legs could propel her. I picked up the terrified child, and my wife and I rushed her as fast as we could to where our car was parked, and as I drove home, my wife comforted our waiting child. By the time we got home, she had stopped sobbing, and my wife pulled out some hardboiled eggs and allowed her to peacefully paint some pictures on eggs and then she had a nice lunch of eggs and a discreet bit of candy, and then took a long nap to help her recover from her tiny tidbit of post Easter Egg hunt traumatic shock.
My daughter is now 47 and doing well. Yesterday we went with her, her wife, and their 10 year old daughter to a ballet performance of the Snow Queen, based a fairy tale by Hans Christian Anderson. At the end of the ballet, love conquers all and everyone dances peacefully off the stage. I haven’t been to Los Angeles for 50 years. Perhaps next year (if my brain has not turned to putty), my granddaughter and I will take a train and/or a bus to Los Angeles, and I can show her the ugly grade school I attended from kindergarten through 5th grade.
I should say that my daughter ran in the opposite direction from the barbarian hordes pillaging the Easter Egg and candy pile. Similar to my wife, our daughter is tough and polite and discreet. I don’t want to ruin her good reputation.