For the past three nights I have fallen asleep composing a list of names. Girls’ names. Names that are reliable and lovely, feminine and a little countrified. Old-timey names, reminescent of balmy, sun-soaked Southern afternoons and tall glasses of iced tea beaded with heavy drops of condensation. Names that call to mind the cheerful snap of laundry flying from a breezy clothesline. Names like Eunice or Petunia. Names like Henrietta, Edith, Muriel.

Why? Because I was about to enter motherhood. Well, surrogate mother-HEN-hood, that is.

This morning, the man from the feed store called at a quarter to nine. My husband answered the phone. “It’s Robbie from the feed store,” he said, handing me the receiver. I snatched at the phone.  “CHICKENS???” I cried, without even saying good morning to Robbie.

“Chickens.” Robbie said.

Here’s a movie about my chickens, in all their melodiously-peeping-baby-chickeny wonderfulness.

These chickens are part of an Increased Self-Sufficiency Initiative for 2009. They are laying hens, which means that in a few months they will be popping out delicious, free-range organic eggs for me and my husband to eat. Brown eggs! And blue eggs! It’s going to be like Easter, all the fricken time!