I woke up with a reindeer trying to nurse from my armpit. I have breastfed creatures—humans, to be more specific—for a cumulative four years. I am not doing so any longer, however, and never before has milk exited from my armpit.
Despite this, the stuffed reindeer, which had a reindeer nose about a tenth of the size of your average magical-sleigh-pulling variety, was nuzzling against my armpit in a very familiar way. The girl, with her rather cute five-year-old hand on its back, was smiling broadly in such a way that is comparable to the sun. Pure, beautiful, bright happiness.
Through the open door I could hear the boy. One of my neighbors gave us an old electronic Santa with the looks of a very idyllic Santa circa 1980. Upon being plugged in with a somewhat sketchy looking 1980’s cord, Santa lifts a mug of hot cocoa—or whatever it is Santa needs after such a hearty journey—to his mouth, and with a mechanical click he returns the mug to its original position. I could hear the sound the boy was making every time Santa brought the mug to his mouth.
Slllllllluuuuurrrrrpppp.
Click.
Slllllluuuuuurrrrpppp.
Click…
This likely went on every thirty seconds for the next fifteen minutes or so, but I can’t say for certain because I got out of bed—tis better to start the day groggily, than to stay in bed and slowly be driven to madness by an eight-year-old and a slurping Santa. And so the day began.
And The Mission Was Quite Simple: Find Chicks
Not the attractive freshmen-in-college-wearing-very-tiny-shorts sort of chicks. If only—I could have just driven to the nearest Hooters and called it a day. No, I was looking for the avian variety.
You see, the boy decided to join a 4-H club on chicken husbandry. Raising chickens is hardly a new enterprise in this house, and it was mildly humorous watching him daydream through the club leader’s careful instructions on keeping these little fluff-butts alive. But, joining the 4-H club means the boy can show his chickens at the county fair this spring, should he choose to do so. And so we were given four little one-day-old fluff-butts to take home on a chilly November evening.
Naturally, as tradition dictates, the girl wanted to raise her own little butts of fluff. What five-year-old girl wouldn’t? And so the hunt was on. I entered the game feeling confident. There are lots of feed stores in this county, several of which are in this town. I spent the next hour on the phone and the internet.
It is a fact that country stores prefer to let their phones ring approximately a dozen times before answering. I think they are trying to weed out the weak—only a truly invested customer would wait that long. I got one polite big box store style apology for their lack of autumn fluff-butt inventory, one “no” from a very country sounding fellow that likely was on a tractor and either his engine or his accent could only loosely be translated, and then a “no” from several in a tone of voice that meant something like of course we don’t have chicks, don’t you know it isn’t spring?
And then I got desperate and called a feed store in the big ugly city the next county over. And that, I can assure you, was an act of sheer desperation.
Fall Has Not Yet Fully Committed
You can see it in the maple trees. One at the front of my property looks as green as it did in summer, all jolly and proud and really trying to one-up the evergreens. The one in the back of my property has disrobed yellows and reds onto the ground, and is standing proud and stark naked for all the world to see. The pine trees across the way seem to be yawning disdainfully, so full of evergreen arrogance. It is the way of a Florida autumn.
Which brings me to the point I was grouchily debating while driving off to go to the big ugly city. Why isn’t chick season year round in Florida? It’s a bit nippy off and on, but there will not be a freeze until January, and maybe none at all. Besides, the little fluff-butts go under a heat lamp.
I let out a sigh. Going to the big ugly city meant that we might as well make a day of it and go to the big ugly zoo. That’s a lie—the zoo isn’t ugly at all. Actually, I have a lot of affection for the gorilla. I just want to stare at his face all day long. And I want to snuggle with him. Wouldn’t a gorilla hug be amazing? Assuming he doesn’t crush your spine with those massive gorilla arms. The zoo really takes me back to my Australopithecus roots.
But anyway, this isn’t about my gorilla issues—this is about chicks. We left the zoo a bit later than planned—perhaps we lingered a bit too long at the gorilla exhibit—and were dangerously approaching the time of the hellish event called Rush Hour Traffic in the big ugly city. The GPS guided us by all sorts of ugly buildings, and ugly roads, and ugly sidewalks, and ugly powerlines, and ugly bus stops, and really just everything in complete and utter ugliness, until all of the sudden we were there.
I may have entered the store like a hyperactive boy that just spent four hours strapped into a car seat. I had the feeling that was the case when I looked at the smooth face of the man standing behind the counter. There was a distinct look of kindness there on his face. Some people are bright light people—the light that all of us have within to some degree just comes very naturally to those sorts. And there he stood like a bright full moon, beaming at me, despite his smirk that said something like the only white lady in three blocks and you look crazed—clearly you are lost.
The full moon man sold me two cute little blond fluff-butts that the girl picked out among a swarm of cute little blond fluff-butts that all looked exactly the same. We hurried back to the main road and—
Blast It All
We hit the hellish event that is called Rush Hour Traffic in the big ugly city.
But despite crawling through traffic surrounded by the truly impressive ugliness of the big ugly city, magic was happening. The children were sleeping like logs after all that zoo and chick escapade-ing, and the little chicks were peeping away in a heartbreaking chorus, with no chance we would be getting home swiftly to let them nuzzle under the heat lamp. I pulled their little box onto my lap and peeked into one corner of the top.
It never fails—those little poop machines are cute. You just can’t help but love them. It doesn’t matter that they will turn into yellow-eyed living dinosaurs that will peck your eye ball in a heartbeat and beg for treats with a most unbecoming squall sound. And it does not matter that they will undeniably poop on everything. I stuck my hand inside the opening in the top, and the little fuzzy dears curled up against my hand, stopped their peeping, and went right to sleep.
Honestly, I’m not sure my life would have been complete if I could not say that I have driven home through rush hour traffic one handed, the other hand holding sleeping chicks that genuinely seemed to think that I was their mother. My fellow drivers probably thought I had my hand buried in a box of fried chicken. Quite the opposite.
Mission Complete
All is well. The girl and the reindeer have given up on getting milk from my arm pit. The green maple tree looks to have dropped a couple yellow leaves. The chicks are nestled all snug in their beds while visions of meal worms dance in their heads.
And I have unplugged Santa.
One thought comes to mind when I read the above.... The things mothers have to put up with! 😄🦌🐥 And then you get rewarded with fluff butts napping in hand! Priceless!! 🥰
Those fluff butts really make everything better. Stub your toe? Just look at those cute little balls of fluff - toe feels better. Aggravated with your husband? Just look at those darling little puff balls - feeling great again. Absolutely magical :)
Oh they are cute! I think after a drive like that you can now say you are complete :OD
I think that most stores here are beginning to if not have already fully adopted the let it ring philosophy to weed out the weak. You can barely get anyone to answer these days.
They will stay in this beautiful state of adorable perfection for about two more weeks and then they get big enough for their poop to start accumulating more rapidly in their cage, and they rapidly stop being as cute to me. It's a funny business.
But you are not weak! Wait out a good 24 rings - really show them who is boss ;)
Its funny how quickly they lose their cuteness.
Dont worry, I put the phone on speaker and jus tgo about my business until they break :O)
I wonder if businesses get robocalls, and if so, has the man calling about their car warranty already broken them around ring 25? Actually, do you all get robocalls there a lot, or is this an American issue? There is an automated lady that chatters away to my voicemail in Mandarin once a month or so, and a part of me really wants to know what she is saying, but I am afraid to find out because if its about extending my car warranty it will be a huge let-down.
Oh we do indeed! A disturbing amount of them. To the point where most people don't bother answering their landlines because when they do they know it will either be silence then hanging up or someone asking about the motor accident you were really involved in!
Darn it, no escaping them by running to Scotland then. Scratch that off my list:)
I dont know if anywhere is safe!!
So what you're saying is I should probably go see a doctor about the milk that keeps coming out of my armpit?
!PIZZA
No, definitely not. Your milk glands are probably just a little misaligned, and it turns out that you are actually a woman. What a fun realization! Just think of all the new possibilities - working as a wet nurse, buying nursing bras, having sex with men - you are going to love it.
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I'm so relieved to hear this. Really looking forward to the nursing bras!
Excellent. I hope you find just the right fit.
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Oh the joys of mothering, zooming from one little adventure to the next make up the memories in future years. They did for me @ginnyannette. My daughter raised a little chick for a biology imprinting exercise, the moving movie still plays in my head. Hang onto the fun days @ginnyannette.
Thanks, I will do my best to hang onto them. This blog has turned out to be in large part my memories preserved for the children. There is always some sort of event to preserve:)
Lol, fantastic last line!!
Thanks! As a matter of fact, Santa is still unplugged. He broke, and now when he is plugged in his mug hovers midway between his lap and his face and it is really kind of sad to watch. Poor Santa, he is never going to get his spiked eggnog at this rate. I think his slurping days are done.