Coop_ A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting - Michael Perry [116]
The critical morning dawned with hope. You root for the kid, you know. How quickly as parents we discover that it really does hurt us more than them, and I dreaded the evening if she failed. By mid-afternoon it was clear she would fall short. Even with a gentle reminder here and there, she kept dawdling. When the time came and Anneliese began wordlessly packing Jane’s diaper bag, Amy sensed that something was up. “Where are we going?” she asked. “I’m going to a dance,” said Anneliese. “Oh!” said Amy quickly. “I’d better get my chores done, then!” Of course there was nowhere near enough time, and we broke the bad news.
“But what am I going to do?”
“You have to stay home,” said Anneliese quietly.
A flood of tears. And then Amy wailed, “You mean I have to stay home with grumpy old Mike?”
Anneliese had dinner with my family at the farm that night. She says my brothers couldn’t decide what tickled them more—the fact that Amy called me grumpy or old.
To see the realization set in, to see her sweet hopeful face crumple, to hear the tears that followed as Anneliese drove away…ach, it rips the heart out of me. I leaned backward against the sink as she wept and wept at the kitchen table, and it felt like I had kicked a bunny. How many years before we knew what good or damage we had done? For a while I just let her roll, then I announced that it was time to eat. She kept breaking down as we got supper ready, but I slogged on. There were brief moments of lucid conversation interspersed with extended crying jags. As we ate, the ratio slowly reversed itself, but by the time the meal was over I was shot, and proposed we just put the chickens away and head for bed. As we snuggled in for the bedtime books, Amy said, “Tell me the story about when you couldn’t go swimming.”
I had forgotten that I had told her the story previously. As part of one of my sermons, no doubt. And so I told it again, and we talked about why parents do what they do, and then I read her a book about a girl who loved the color pink and then I kissed her good night and in the morning it was another day.
Today when I turn out the layers, the Speckled Sussex and the Barred Rock are slow to move. Rather than scooting away when I reach for them, they allow themselves to be caught. I can’t see anything visibly wrong with either one, so I just leave them in the pump house and go to the office. By mid-afternoon I notice that the Barred Rock has eased her way outside. She’s tentative and doesn’t rejoin the flock right away, but she’s clearly improved. The Speckled Sussex is right where I left her, motionless except when she blinks. I place a saucer of water right beside her and she dips her beak twice, but even that movement is desultory and shortly the other chickens swoop in and stomp all over the saucer. I have no idea what the problem is, and decide to treat it with a dose of wait-and-see.
In the evening Anneliese’s mother babysits while Anneliese and I go out for our third anniversary. For the past two years we have celebrated in a small cabin beside Lake Superior. This year my schedule won’t allow it and the pigs and chickens make it harder to leave. We have a nice meal and then go for coffee in a strip mall. Every anniversary we review our vows, and as we go through them tonight, it isn’t the shoreside discussion in the pines overlooking Gitchigume with the waves breaking below, but at least we are face-to-face, talking about something other than diapers and chickens. (I have lately developed a persistent habit of steering all conversation toward the topics of coop ventilation, the effects of molt on the laying cycle, and personal poultry anecdotes. In honor of our love, Anneliese has placed a firm one-night moratorium on chicken stories.)