Apr 17, 2018 3 min read

For each of the past four weeks, we have received shipments of baby chickens at work. On Monday mornings, we get the call from the post office that our “live freight” has arrived, and we go pick up our birds.

Approximately 100 peeps fit in a box the size of a suitcase. They are unpacked into our homemade, indoor coop where they have access to fresh water and unlimited food at all times. They cheep and tweet and just generally look adorable.

After a few days, they begin to get feathers. They get a bit gangly, less fuzzy, and go through what we refer to as their awkward teenage phase. They’re still cute, just not in the stereotypical, Easter commercial kind of way.

People are enthralled with chickens these days. Many communities and municipalities are changing their ordinances to permit small flocks within their limits. This is allowing families the opportunity to raise a handful of peeps to adulthood, gather their own eggs and really connect with where their food comes from.

And kids love the peeps. They climb up on the stool we keep nearby, and ooh and ahh over the tiny things. Sometimes, we pick one up and bring it out to the kids so they can pet it.

One day last week, a young mom brought her son and daughter in to see the chicks. The little boy climbed the steps and peered over the edge into the coop. He squealed with delight as they flapped their wings and ran in circles. His sister squealed with delight because he did.

My co-worker asked me if I would pick up a chick and let them pet it. I was more than happy to oblige. I squatted down in front of the two little ones with an even littler one in my hand. The little boy reached out and petted the little chick’s head.

Suddenly, the little girl reached out and snatched the chick from my grip. Her tiny little fingers were wrapped around the little bird’s neck. The little girl shrieked with joy that the fluffy thing was in her hands.

Fearing for the bird, I quickly took it back. Simultaneously, the mom grabbed her daughter and scooped her up from the floor. The poor little girl began to cry. The boy, unhappy because his sister was unhappy, scooted behind his mother’s legs and scowled at me. The chick trembled in my hands, and I whispered what I hoped were reassuring things to it as I walked it back to the coop.

Then, mortified that I had made a child cry, I apologized profusely to the mother. She assured me everything was fine, and she apologized to us. She said she had been considering getting chickens but this experience helped her decide to wait another year or two.

After the girl stopped crying, we all shared a laugh at how fast the whole thing had gone down. I’m glad I’ve got a long time to go before I’m a grandma. I’m really out of practice at the whole kid thing.

And truth be told, I can barely keep a chicken safe.

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.