9pm
My head has been consumed by parties these last 5 days, which predictably has meant no writing. Am considering changing the name of this blog to Country Mum Doesn’t Write.
For those not familiar what “party” means to a parent of smalls:
A daytime event involving a carefully timed or continuous supply of snacks, activities and/or craft, with guaranteed crying by at least one individual present.
We had a Good Friday celebration at a hall with some locals (still feeling our way into the local community, which has so far been a pleasure. Most of the 3-4 years since we moved here from London have been occupied by having the last two babies and the covid years so it still feels like I’m learning the local ropes…). We had a 7th birthday party for C2 on Easter Saturday. We had a church egg hunt on Easter Sunday. We had a friends Easter Monday party yesterday (the highlight of which was C1’s new bestie falling in the lake fully clothed. Cue further bonding opportunities as C1 and New Bestie cocooned upstairs going through C1’s entire wardrobe for appropriately festive replacement garments (they inevitably settled on a rainbow unicorn dress with matching leggings). We had a daytrip to Husband’s side of the fam today. We are PARTIED OUT.
Turns out C4 may be a Carsick Child. She chundered all over her carseat before we even arrived. I’m growing used to being That Relative. The one that turns up saying things like “thank you for finding my child” and “please may I have a bag to put my child’s puke-covered clothes in. And some spray. And use of your washing machine” with a tenacious image of a daffodil branded to her forehead (the packet said temporary, people. Temporary.) rather than the traditional groomed appearance, joyful exchange of hellos and presentation of a potted plant.
We were all glad to return home to roost this eve. Husband kindly offered to bath the brood so I could rest before the consecutive bedtimes…Pregnant Self sadly didn’t get her anticipated rest, as en route Country Self conducted her usual obsessive scouting for chickens and spied a loose one.
What it is about chickens? Their wily dimness makes them cutely vulnerable. Dusk Chicken had apparently flown out of the SafeZone (electric fenced area), found the fully enclosed run where our 3 chicks are being raised by C1’s new broody hen Fluffy (if you want a laugh, Google Silkie chickens), forgotten how to get home and hunkered down next to the chick run, despite the pouring rain.
As I watched, the fox appeared from nowhere and launched itself at the sodden Dusk Chicken. Amazingly screaming and clapping out the window still seems to work, and Foxy only got a few feathers before fleeing the screaming banshee which turns out to be Country Self’s alter ego.
So instead of a 5-10 min rest I found myself trudging around in the rain making unconvincing chicken noises in the hopes of flushing out Dusk Chicken, who had rather effectively gone to ground.
C1, who half an hour earlier had been too dizzy and blurry visioned to make it across the hall without help and feeling her way somewhat dramatically, popped up out of nowhere to get the latest chicken report and lend her chicken whispering efforts. Dizzyness and blurred vision miraculously recovered.
Sadly neither of us could find Dusk Chicken despite valiant surrender of any dignity or personal comfort. But ultimately the kids needed bedding and night fell.
It was a pretty morose Country Self who finally returned downstairs and was wrestling for control with Pregnant Self, the former steeling herself to go out in the dark stormy night for more chicken reconnaissance and the latter insisting it was Sacred Sofa Time.
Happily Husband took up his head torch and braved the weather to count the chickens many times and return with the joyful report that all 8 hens were currently in the coops. He has no idea which is which but unless a neighbouring hen has strayed into our girls’ coop then Dusk Chicken has returned home and my night will be blessedly free from images of dejected rainsoaked chickens waiting to die. SHE CAME HOME.
Tomorrow Country Self will be learning how to wing clip so the hens stay in SafeZone. Pregnant Self is smugly sipping tea on the sofa. Writerly Self has once again failed to get a look in this eve, but is plotting her return this week as the festive frenzy eases.
You never know, maybe one day Foxy or puke-covered carseats will be just the material for Writerly Self to make her book authentic. Write what you know…A fantasy book I recently finished (Nettle and Bone by T. Kingfisher) featured a possessed chicken and was clearly written by a chicken lover. Perhaps Writerly Self could incorporate the Easter Monday Party prize of a real golden egg somewhere (edible spray paint is a wonderful thing). But not tonight. Tonight I have a date with Bed.
Happy Easter!
Country Mum Writes 