Just ten short days ago, The Husband and I celebrated Valentine's Day and our 21st anniversary by adding to our little homestead family. We woke up bright and early and headed to the local feed store to pick out two Ameraucana pullets. We came home with three and this is why: Apparently, these itsy bitsy cutesy balls of fluff are quite fragile and if you want two to live, you'd better buy three...just in case. We are new to this whole homesteading way of life and baby chick mortality rates are just one of the things we learned that day. We learned that the word "pullet" is just another name for "itsy bitsy cutesy ball of fluff that's also a girl". We learned it would be months and months before we could introduce them to the three hens we inherited when we bought our home seven months ago. We learned that we had to buy a heat lamp that would turn our laundry room into the Planet Venus. And we learned that these tiny girls who could fit into the palm of my hand required a 50lb bag of medically enhanced food. So we bought all of our supplies, took our babies home, and named them Betsy Ross, Molly Pitcher, and Martha Washington.....because they are Ameraucana chickens...get it? 

We chose the laundry room as their temporary digs as it is a room I'm constantly using (much to my chagrin) and it has a door we can shut to keep our dog and cat from treating our newborns like chew toys. Now I have not earned the nickname "Martha Stewart" for nothing, and so when we had to decide on a container, my antique galvanized produce bin from an A&P was the obvious choice. Babygirl and Beans were put to work tearing newspaper into strips, I fixed up the food and water containers, and The Husband put together the heat lamp from hell. And then we all sat criss-cross applesauce on the laundry room floor and acted like poultry paparazzi.  

And all was well....for around 24 hours. I noticed that while Betsy and Molly were racing around like speed addicts, Martha was looking a bit lethargic. And (hold up here...it's about to get icky) she had a rather large chunk of poo stuck in her fanny. So we did what our homesteading ancestors would've done and googled "poo stuck in fanny". Huge mistake. HUGE. We tried again with a more generic search term of "chicken ailments" and found that Poor Little Martha Washington had a common baby chick condition known as "pasted vent" and, yes, that's every bit as gross as it sounds. Basically, she was dying of constipation. I then called the feed store, talked to the Chicken Expert On Duty, and was advised to give them the feed only during the day, add some sugar to the water container, and use a warm cloth to gently remove/wipe away the stuck poo. Done. Done. And, ew, done. I was also told to hand water Poor Little Martha Washington as often as I could by using my fingertip to drop water into her beak. So that's what I did....for hours. And I talked to her, and I prayed for her, and I held her tiny little body in my hand as she died during the night. 

Before we left for church the next morning, we all said goodbye to Poor Little Martha Washington, and The Husband buried her under the crab apple tree. 

It is now a week and a day later and I'm happy to report that Betsy Ross and Molly Pitcher are thriving. They suck down an entire bottle of water every single day, they are quickly going through that 50lb bag of food, and are twice the size they were a week ago. Their sweet little "cheep, cheep, cheeps" are the cutest sound ever. I love sitting on the floor of the laundry room and watching as they eat from my hand and peck at my fingers. I wish they would stay this size forever. And although we are throwing ourselves into the homesteading lifestyle with abandon, I cannot foresee a time where my new babies will end up in a stew pot. 

And now here's the truth about the demise of Poor Little Martha Washington: 

She didn't die. She's alive and well. Poor Little Betsy Ross is buried under the crab apple tree. We just liked the name Martha the least, so we changed Betsy's name. Awful, I know, but I'm guessing that, in time, Betsy will forget she was once a chick named "Martha". 

The bathtub is my sanctuary, my lavender-scented escape, my Fortress of Solitude. When the children were young, The Husband skillfully kept them from breaching my hideaway and now that they're older, abject fear of seeing me unclothed is all that's needed to keep them from invading my "me time". 

This is where you'll find me at 8pm just about every single night. I make no apologies. I have no guilt. Why should I? My much-adored family has 20+ hours a day to ask questions, make demands, add to my ever growing grocery list. So, no, I don't feel the least bit selfish for taking an hour or two for myself. That's right....an hour or TWO...sometimes it's three. It depends on the day. I have heard strange tales of people taking a bath in 30 minutes or less. Frankly, I don't believe them. It takes me a solid 30 minutes just to unwind and get my thoughts in order. And I don't consider a good soak a success unless the tub has been refilled with fresh hot water at least twice. 

Do I think every parent should use this as their way to unwind and regroup? No. Absolutely not. Babygirl, for instance, will never use this method of relaxation. She simply cannot fathom how I can "soak in my own filth". Her words, not mine. I am truly a hygienic person. I swear. But I do think you need to find something that is yours and yours alone. Find a place to "clean" yourself of the worries and frustrations of the day. Find your own Fortress of Solitude. Just don't find any guilt in it. We all need a moment of silence and reflection. For some, it's 15 minutes of quiet. For others, it's an hour at the gym, a walk around the neighborhood, time in the garden. I don't know what it is that relaxes you and helps you unwind. I only know mine. And mine makes me a better wife, mom, teacher, and friend. And there's no guilt in that. Now if you'll excuse me, the bubbles are calling my name....