Thursday

This morning at breakfast, we talked about the ongoing lawsuits against various holdings of the billionaire who happens to be running for president. This quickly morphed into a discussion of lawsuits in general, about tax codes that are difficult to follow and tougher still to enforce, about making savvy decisions in light of complicated pools of information, and about chickens who are no longer waging war, but are nonetheless making sure that the younger hens understand their place in the group.





All this caused me to blurt out -- it must be difficult to be prosperous, or to be a top chicken.
Ed laughed at that: a sudden sympathy for the powerful and wealthy of this world?

No. It's so much harder to be powerless and poor, or to be little Henny, who is so terrified of violating the social order that every time I raise my hand to throw bread (a gesture that the other girls understand means a dispersal of their favorite treat), she runs away, concluding that her station in life dictates that she should flee. But I do think being top hen (and perhaps being rich) must come with its own perils: look at Butter -- she can never relax. She follows the younger girls to make sure that they're not getting a better deal in life and that she, Butter, should have the first turn at fat worms or pieces of bread. Yes, it must be tough to guard your holdings or your premier status in life. Even as my heart goes out to Henny and my gratitude -- to Java who guards the littlest hen with her own huge presence, making Henny feel safe and comforted.








And as I am on the topic of little ones, let me go straight to Snowdrop's home. Here, I want to just mention two games that have positively grabbed my granddaughter's attention this morning.

First, the spoon series:






There is the spoon dance (where she does a lovely little step with her right foot):






And then there's the "bang the dishcloth" dance:






But it's the second play that really gets her chortling. After working diligently to sort shapes, she thinks up a funner game: peek-a-boo from behind the basket lid, which she deftly holds with her teeth. Just because.






I get my face very close on the other side and then she just can't help herself! It's so funny!






Of course, no day is complete without time devoted to carrying jackets, shoes, penguin, all at a run. Case in point (yes, it's kind of a wild hair day):












In the late afternoon, I pack her into the car and drive to our Big Mall. I'm not a great fan of malls and I am sorry to subject her to it, but I'm running low on errand time and I must return an item purchased under pressure (well, purchased when I succumbed to an email ad) and so I tell Snowdrop that I will happily pay for that overpriced toddler car stroller thing if she will stay good humored during our venture.  It's a $5 expense, but I'm desperate.

Of course, she's fine with the car, but loves much more the freedom to romp up and down the mall on her own.







Evening. I come home to cheepers, to Ed, to the quiet of the farmhouse. I would end my post  with this, but I do want to note just one more thing: as of today, I am the proud owner of a tiny tiny Warsaw apartment, all pink and awful in the photos that I inspected. Of course, that's the end of chapter one. What to do with it, how to transform it, and more importantly -- how to create good memories in it -- that surely will fill many Ocean pages in the future.