06.07.11

Dearëst Zoë,

I'm beginning to believe that the chickens are a negative influence in your life.  I've seen you share with dogs and other children without a complaint, but when it comes to birds, your philosophy seems to be they may just go eat cake.  As long as it's someone elses and not yours. 

You were so cranky this afternoon.  I took you outside to try and help relieve boredom and the plan was to throw the toast from your breakfast and the remains of your peanut butter sandwich lunch to our eager little flock.  Roxie and Mad Max rushed the fence we stood behind, flanked on each side by our pair of still un-named Sebrights.  I tore up the first piece of toast and started dolling out the offerings.  You were quite put out by the enthusiasm with which they gobbled every crumb up.  At least SOMEONE is eating my meals, little one.  I handed you a piece to rip up and poke through the fence holes, but instead, you shoved as much as would fit into your mouth and ran away. 

Is this the only successful method of inducing you to eat a meal?  I really hate to dangle all your future food over the chicken fence, but if it gets you to eat, I might consider it.  Perhaps we should just go ahead and move the dining table out there as well.  We might get a few questioning glances from the neighbors, but if it would induce you to eat more often, I'd be willing. 

You have a new teal bouncy ball.  It hasn't left your side since we bought it for you last night.  You and I have developed a very sophisticated game called "butt-ball" for the simple reason that every time I say it, you crack up.  I chase you around the house with the ball in hand and tell you I'm going to get your butt and you run and giggle and try to protect your heiney with your hands or by finding a corner to hide it in and then I catch up with you and bounce it off your booty, screaming "butt-ball" at a decibel that likely carries around the block.  At this point, we both laugh so hard it's time to take a breathing break before you grab the ball and throw it as far in the opposite direction as you can (which is pretty far; you have a great arm) and we start a fresh round of "butt-ball". 

You insisted on packing butt-ball this afternoon when I loaded you into the little red wagon and pulled your around the neighborhood.  We found a civic organization just a road or two away from us that has a pool.  Your Daddy and I might join for the year since you love swimming so much.  As we left, you cried "pool, pool, pool" because you didn't understand why we couldn't swim right then.  I feel bad when there's no way to explain things to you like why we didn't swim this afternoon, but on the way out of their parking lot, I picked a spray of beautiful yellow flowers and handed them to you.  Your day was again restored.  I wish we all had the ability to take such pleasure in small joys. 

Wishing I was there to tuck you in tonight,

Mama