February 1, 2005

• Spring Chickens

  
  

  Spring's around the corner, or so I keep telling myself, these see-your-breath mornings.  Pretty soon we'll be getting live mail.  Ordering bees is exciting (and always wins grim comments from the postpeople), but getting a box of chicks is just downright too-cute.  If the source farm did its job right, there's little if any attrition, and it's magical to open the box and see all the fluffy peepers.

  
  

  Last year after a successful chick shipment my youngest (then 3) initiated a game.  "Mommy," she'd demand, "Pretend I'm your baby chick and you're my mommy, but I can't walk OR talk yet.  Pretend you just got me in the mail.  Say this:  'Oooooh, what's in this box?' Then when I peep, say 'I'm SOOO glad to see you, baby chick.  Every time the phone rang I thought it would be the post office calling me to tell me my chick arrived, and this time, it WAS!'" 

  
  

  I'd obliging go through the lines, and generally get them wrong and have to repeat them, often several times.  Her very real delight at my feigned astonishment was inexhaustable.

  
  

  My eldest (then 6) generally (somewhat surprisingly) went along with this little byplay without even trying to insert herself.  But one day she was grumpy, and as the youngest waited with smiling anticipation while I breathlessly opened the imaginary box, the eldest strode up, took a hard look in the box, and stated flatly:

  
  

  "Ooops.  Chick's dead.  Too bad."

  
  

  Definitely a don't-dare-laugh-or-cry moment.

  • 9:08 am
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