Mother Hen

Hi! Thanks for stopping by Homestead Lane.

This past weekend Homestead Lane welcomed seven baby chicks! Having never been the owner of anything more than fish, a hamster that I froze to death accidentally on my cold back porch as a youngster, and a beagle, I was a bit nervous about owning and raising farm animals. However, I took one look at Sweet Sylvia and realized that after four years of raising the queen of drama, I could probably handle some chicks. These chicks wouldn't keep me up all night, or scream "NO! I DON'T WANT TO!" or ask why a million times, or throw themselves down in the middle of the grocery store because they couldn't get a toy. Yeah, I think I can handle some chicks.

So, we got two Productions Reds,

two Welsummers,

two Gold Sexlinks,

and one beautiful Cuckoo Maran - who was immediately named Henrietta Finley (see the inspiration for my forthcoming novel here.)

Sweet Sylvia named one Crystal, I'm guessing after one her beloved pony toys. Another was named Ariel, and one of the Production Reds - the ones who will lay the most - was named Chicken McNugget. The rest have yet to show is their chickenalities, so their names will be forthcoming.

In advance of getting these chickens I have been pouring over BackyardChickens.com soaking in all the information I can about raising chickens, because, of course like any expecting mother I'm nervous as hell about these fragile little peeps being under my care and supervision. Mostly, everything seemed easy. The brooder (the little tub with a heat lamp where the chicks live for the first 5 weeks) has to be the right temperature. Keep their water and feed always full. Change their box every day or two. Work to imprint the chickens, which is how they connect a sound to the first big thing they see and that's who they think is the mother hen. Oh! I'd be Mother Hen! I loved the sound of that. So very sweet. They'd follow me around while I gave them treats. How cute. Yes, that I could do. Oh, and make sure their vents are open to avoid pasty butt. Uhm, what?! Pasty butt?

Yes. Pasty butt. The situation where the chicks pooper get plugged up with their poop, which then blocks their poop from coming out, which could kill them. Oh dear god! I didn't want my little chicks to die of a clogged pooper. BackyardChickens suggested checking them every few hours the first two weeks, including overnight. Our chicks came to us a few days old, so I was going to have to give them attention like newborns?! No. Sorry chicks, but no. Mama already played that game with a newborn, re-played that game at one year old, played it again recently at four years old, and am just to a point where overnight sleep is somewhat normal. I'm NOT getting up every few hours to check your little chicken butt.

However, this morning after Silas and Sylvia said good morning to our little flock Silas informed me that Henrietta had a clogged vent. Ha! Ha! was of course my first response. I knew he was joking because when I first informed him about checking our chicks vents he laughed and said, "have fun!" To which I responded, "I will do anything for our sweet baby chicks including checking their vents." Thinking, like any parent-to-be, that my chicken would never have that. He looked at me with all seriousness this morning and assured me he was not joking. There was a pasty butt situation.

Oh Henrietta! Mama's coming! I donned surgical gloves, got a warm, wet rag, a warm water bath  in a bowl, vegetable oil and sat next to our little chicken brooder and informed Henrietta that there would be a small procedure this morning. I used my Mother Hen voice and discussed with Henrietta that she was going to be our most beautiful hen and we needed her but to be free and clear at all times. I held her in my hands, dipped her little backside in the warm bath water and proceeded to free the clumped-up shit from her little chicken fluff. She was not a fan of her chicken enema. I couldn't blame her. Not a great way to start your day. And, furthermore, I couldn't believe I was sitting with a week old chicken trying to pry her poop from her feathers, soothing her with my newfound Mama Hen voice. But here we were, bonding. Mother and chicken.

You'll be happy to know we solved the pasty butt problem, wiped her vent with vegetable oil, as suggested, and Henrietta is as good as new. I sat with my chick, dipped her in a warm bath, dissolved poop from her little chicken butt, and then whipped her down with vegetable oil. Who am I?! Oh, yes, Mother Hen.

To my surprise when I put Henrietta back in the brooder all the other chicks started pecking at her butt, curious what her exotic vegetable oil scent was all about. She stood with her beak in a corner while the others pecked at her like a kid on the playground getting picked on. "You get away from my Henrietta! Any of you couldn't have had pasty butt. How would you feel? Any don't think you're escaping this! You're all getting checked!" And just like a Mother Hen I picked up each chick and checked their vents for pasty butt. And just like little kids, they all ran and hid from their examination.

So I've become a mother again. Accidentally, without giving it much thought, I went and had seven new little babies. Sigh. You can find my new baby registry at your local Town & Country supply store. I think I'm going to like this second mother hood though. Proud moments like when we move them to their coop, their first free range hunt and peck adventure, when they lay their first eggs. And headaches like unidentifiable sickness, lost chickens, and cross-my-fingers that it doesn't happen, but hopefully not losing one to a predator. I shall cast that last one from my mind. We've protected their coop like Fort Knox, fortifying it with everything but an ADT alarm system. But that's another story for another time. I have to go feed my little flock a treat now. They had a tough morning.