Kids Make Messes

Chickens = Eggs
Chickens = Eggs

BRONTE JUST BUSTED THROUGH THE FRIDGE DOOR-LOCK AND BROKE A CARTON OF EGGS DOWN THE STAIRS.

Breathe… Breathe… It’s gonna be okay…

Saying kids are messy is a bit like calling the sky blue and the grass green. Yes, we all know kids are messy (whether we have them or not), but the sheer scope and magnitude of their messes can be mind-blowing. Like the time Brontë pulled her diaper off, hid it, then used our white-carpeted stairs as one giant roll of toilet paper…

She is genuinely distraught about the eggs. I think I know what she was planning: John and I have been discussing getting some chickens. Our kids love animals, I think animals are good for children and I think getting fresh, organic, free-range eggs would be terrific for the family. I like the idea of involving our kids in making meals. They should know where real food comes from.

My plans may be a tad ambitious, but I’d love to keep chickens and let the girls collect the eggs. I’d also like to grow some vegetables and let the girls help tend the garden. Maybe they will want to eat more eggs and veggies if they have been involved in their production? It has to be better than food always magically appearing out of a bag or box, right?

Brontë has hit an age where she wants to be helpful. She likes to help unload the dishwasher and clothes washer. It takes a little longer with her participation, but I’m trying to be encouraging about it. I figure if she has positive associations with these sorts of chores, she will continue being helpful when she is older and more dexterous. Why not put this helpfulness to good use by getting chickens? It’s a win-win… she can build a sense of competence, we can spend time together in a productive activity, and she can learn to eat better food.

So, there has been a lot of egg talk around the house lately. Free-range chickens produce better eggs. Farmed chickens, in addition to living pretty miserable lives, are fed cheap grain and pumped full of antibiotics. backyard chickens eat grass and insects all around your yard, which is packed with more protein and nutritious plant oils.

Brontë keeps hearing us talk about needing eggs. My guess is that she thought, ” Eggs? Mommy needs eggs? I know where there are a whole BUNCH of eggs! I’ll get into the fridge and bring mommy a carton of eggs and she will be so happy!” Excited by her plans, she undoubtedly dug into the refrigerator, pulled out a carton, and shakily carried it up the staircase while envisioning mommy’s approval and delight.

And suddenly, she tripped. A carton of eggs crashed to the floor, smearing yellow goo and shattered shell bits all down the stairs. Mommy runs out to see what happened and throws her arms up in the air as frustration breaks out all over her face. Brontë feels defeated and a slow wail builds deep within, crescendoing into a loud, sobbing scream. Mommy sighs, tells her it’s okay, and goes off to get some cleaning rags.

Poor Brontë. I think she meant well.

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