Mother hen moment.

Summer is winding down – not that we’ve had much summer here. You should have seen the chickens’ faces when it actually started raining this morning! They are most definitely not ducks, that’s for sure. They stood stock still for a few minutes and then exited stage left for the coop in a big feathered hurry.

Yummy bugs after the rain

Yummy bugs after the rain

This is probably the last summer we’ll have both, or either of the boys at home: Daniel will leave to go back to college week after next, and Taylor is counting down the weeks or months before he heads off to a new job – he’s just wondering which one as a surprise new offer came in the other day.

It doesn’t take Freud to figure out that getting chickens was most likely a heart-jerk reflex to an empty nest. And hey, it’s not all bad- we learned to mostly enjoy having the house to ourselves when Daniel left last fall. It helps to have ninety pounds of Chloe underfoot all the time.

But there’s a niggling emptiness that surges up now and then. Now because I finally logged in to www.pandora.com to try it out and the third song on my playlist (I typed in Joni Mitchell) was James Taylor’s “You Can Close Your Eyes”. This was a major part of my “playlist” when the boys were small and I sang them to sleep every night. So just when I didn’t expect it, here’s that song out of the blue and I’ve got a big lump in my throat.

empty nest

It’s not sadness, exactly. More of that “passage of time” thing that the Chicken Emperor and I prize certain authors (Willa Cather, especially) for their ability to weave into their stories. A sense that a door has closed to a room I can never re-enter. Was I a good enough mom? Did I leave anything undone? Will they ever talk to me again? Are they ready for the real world? Will they ever learn to make their beds and open the drapes?

My handsome guys

My handsome guys

Just a moment, and it has passed now, because we’re on to Paul Simon and “Graceland”, which is most definitely nothing I would associate with Joni Mitchell.  I’ll never have to worry about preparing the chickens for their future, since I’ve already promised them immunity from the stew pot. No SAT prep. No waiting up late at night for missed curfew. And the only way I can really disappoint them is to walk in the coop without meal worms, a failure that is easily remedied. But there’s nothing like tucking in a three-year-old just after his bath, hair all slicked down and favorite blankie in hand. Can’t go back, but I guess I can still sing to my chickens.

Well the sun is slowly sinking down

But the moon is slowly rising

So this old world must still be spinning round

And I still love you

So close your eyes

You can close your eyes, it’s all right

I don’t know no love songs

And I can’t sing the blues anymore

But I can sing this song

And you can sing this song

When I’m gone.

Sweet Bookie way back when

Sweet Bookie way back when

About polloplayer

Empty nester searching for meaning of life through the occasional chicken epiphany.
This entry was posted in All Things Family, All Things Poultry, Meaningful and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Mother hen moment.

  1. tina says:

    great post. I am tearing up at the thought of my girls leaving home…. thank you for reminding me to cherish these moments even when I’m exhausted from potty training, teething crankiness and sibling rivalry 🙂

  2. jess says:

    your post made me tear up too and i don’t even have children.

    glad you finally experienced the greatness that is pandora! i’m looking into teri’s employer too. it even has a download for my iphone.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s