Someone should probably put CPS on speed dial...

First of all, I'M BACK!! I got my MacBook in the mail today, and even though I could have punched the FedEx guy in the teeth for ignoring the "DON'T RING THE DOORBELL...FOR REALS" sign on our front door, I also wanted to kiss his mouth for bringing the most wonderful present this Type A lunatic could ask for. He basically delivered my life renewed, tucked safely in a sleek little white box.

Second, thank you so much for all the wonderful support. This community is amazing and your words mean the world to me.

And now, a pithy little bloggity blog... (I mean, I don't want to pull anything.)

As if I'm not already fundamentally ill-suited to be a mother, I realized today yet another reason why I should never, never be responsible for another life (unless that life is covered in fur and exponentially less demanding than human babies): I clearly don't respect the learning curve of babies.

Case in point...

I've got chickens. (Yadda, yadda, yadda, Dorothy Gale, Wizard of Oz...moving on...) We had two baby chicks hatch on Easter morning, which was just all sorts of exciting for me! I love me some fuzzy little babies.

At this juncture, however, they are sort of like snotty little pre-teens: they make loud noise 24/7, disrespect boundaries, keep their room a HOT MESS, and think they don't need you for anything.

I have had it.

This morning I walked into the kitchen (which is my happy place, if y'all haven't figured that out already; it's where the espresso machine lives) to make my coffee, and there I see the two brats, running away across the floor so I can't see that they've flown the coop. Literally. They've crapped all over the floor of the breakfast nook (which is actually where exercise equipment and house plants go to die, so it's not quite as disgusting as it sounds), and they're chirping like mad at the impending lecture. (Yes, I lecture birds. Birds. I know.)

My solution? Throw them out of the proverbial nest. That's right, I threw their still-fuzzy asses out of the house. Because I'm not a total jerk, I did at least put their bucket/house out there to create a little nook so they'd still have access to food and water...and hopefully stay clear of that bastard hawk. But now it's storming. And they're cuddled up together, shivering and chirping their little heads off. And I? Only feel kind of bad.

To be fair, I wouldn't do this with real babies. I mean, you can't put babies in a bucket.