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I’d like to tell you a little bit about my family, and this morning, I think I’ll start off with our Little Bit, the youngest member of our family. She is, as any good Irishman would tell you, the light o’my life, my little ray of sunshine. I’ll call her the Boonie Baby, for the moment, as I’m not sure yet if I want to go with using their first names or not.
As of this entry, she is 11 years old, and on the verge of leaving little girlhood behind. She came downstairs to say goodnight to me the other night, her eyes brimming with tears. She curled up on my lap, wrapped her arms around my neck, buried her head in my shoulder and said, “I don’t want to grow up.” And I, feeling my own eyes filling with tears, in my deep parental wisdom replied, “Baby, you’ve got yourself a deal. Just don’t, and we’ll both be happy.” I remember saying the same things to my Mom, and having those same feelings. We both hear the train a comin’, and I dread its arrival.
But: my post title. What in the Sam Hill does this have to do with George the Chicken?
Well, it doesn’t, exactly. But to describe my Little Bit to you adequately, you really need a glimpse of her beautifully disturbed mind. And I can think of no finer example than George, the Chicken.
We began to suspect my daughter was either crazed or brilliant at around age 5. She had always been delightfully silly and giggly. “Isn’t that what little girls are made of?” I asked myself. Sugar and spice and everything nice? My little girl is pure cane sugar, 100% organic, with a healthy dash of cayenne. She is sweet and spicy! Heavy on the sweet, but wow! Has she got some zing!
The story I am about to relate I did not witness first hand, so I may err on a few minor points. I suspect it has grown in the telling and re-telling, not quite reaching urban myth status, but my husband and son and daughter all assure me that it really, really happened, just like this. I was somewhere, doing something undoubtedly important. Otherwise, I would not have missed this monumental moment. But my dear husband was driving the children in the car across town, and little 5 year old Little Bit was strapped into her car seat in the back seat, talking merrily away to herself. For some reason, my dear husband, the Big Bison, decided to pay attention. Perhaps it had something to do with the Boonie Baby’s claim to have a live chicken in her underwear. He begged her pardon, and cooly inquired, “What did you say?”. She repeated, this time a bit more loudly, that she had a live chicken in her underwear. “Oh, really?” asked her somewhat intrigued father. “Yes, his name is George. And he’s having a heart attack.” “Is that so?” nodded the pater familias. “Yes, and he has rabies.”.
“Hmm. OK. Let me get this straight. You have a rabid chicken in your underwear whose name is George, and he’s having a heart attack?” verified her somewhat bewildered Daddy.
By this point, both children had dissolved into fits of riotous laughter, and mayhem ensued. Presumably along with the poultry medical crisis in my daughter’s underwear. Once she had calmed herself, the tale of George the rabid avian cardiac case, went on, and its details are lost in the mists of time, but our dear daughter could spin tales if left unhindered lasting in excess of 30 minutes. We finally had to put the kibosh on some of her stream of consciousness ramblings, because it was eating up all our incredibly valuable dead air time, (and if you’ve ever had a child, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about) but you get the drift. She’s a mess. And continues to be so to this day. Lord! Thank You for such a glorious little mess! She fills our family with joy, and my heart with wonder.
But you might want to be on the lookout for George, and if you see him, please, render any medical assistance you deem necessary.