The word is officially out...we're expecting baby #2 in November!
Baby is now the size of a peach (or a lemon depending on which pregnancy app you look at), and true to the fruit, this week baby is developing some peach-fuzzy hair and eyebrows. I've been feeling the occasional kick for the past couple of weeks and it's just delightful. I've been asked if I'm really just experiencing stomach gurgles or the like, but there's really no mistaking the feeling once you've felt it before. This is a sweet time because as the Lord wills, before too long it'll be round-house kicks to my ribs. ;)
The beginning of this pregnancy left me feeling a bit more queasy than I remember feeling with Olivia. I had read on one of the blogs I frequent (cheeseslave.com), that morning sickness is primarily the result of magnesium deficiency. Our water sources have been stripped, and our food is generally depleted of minerals, so she recommended using either magnesium baths, or the spray. I gave it a try and despite feeling a bit sandy, could tell that it helped out a great deal. Between daily doses of that and red raspberry leaf tea, I made it through the 1st trimester remarkably well. The only time I genuinely felt like throwing up was one night when Andrew and I were watching a movie and he busted out the (normally delicious) roasted wasabi seaweed snacks. **gulp** I couldn't take it and the blessed man sat nearly on the other side of the room to keep the smell away from me.
Olivia seems rather clueless as to what we mean when we say there's a baby in Mommy's belly. Her first, and memorable reaction when asked if she wanted a baby was to think for a second before informing us: "Olivia no-like a baby!". Perhaps she believes this new child will attempt to depose her from her throne?? She has since warmed up to our discussing this new addition, and will occasionally ask to "see" the baby. This usually means sticking her finger in my belly button and say "Hello baby!". There is still plenty of time for her to get used to the idea, but as we stand today, I believe she will be a loving sister and a big help.
Cravings: I was in denial about having any until I realized what I most want is...fat. Lest your minds wander, I'm not talking about wanting to devour chunks of marbled steak. Rather, my love for yellow, grass-fed butter, our hens fresh eggs, whole milk yogurt, raw cheese, coconut milk/oil, and ice cream have reached deeper levels. Despite upping my good food intake (and true to Sally Fallon's "Eat Fat, Lose Fat"), I'm now three months along and have only gained a couple of pounds. My midwife gave me a great report and I'm feeling quite well and extremely blessed.
I'm off now to go finish making some deviled eggs to go with supper...and devour whatever egg-yolk filling is left!
May 14, 2013
May 2, 2013
The Little Red Hen
As many of you know, shortly after starting this blog, the hubby and I decided to enter the world of chicken farming. I was a full 7 months pregnant with Olivia when we went to Mr. Ford's chicken farm and handpicked our first four chicks. They were affectionately named: Red, Jemimah, Ethel, and Henrietta. They were only a day old when we got them, and had the privilege of raising our hens into maturity...that is until two of them sprouted tail feathers, spurs and started crowing. Back to Mr. Ford to swap out Henrietta and Ethel for females!
Several chickens have come and gone since that time, but the one original that has remained is Red. She has always been our favorite. She survived the drought, remained #1 alpha hen of the coop no matter how many others came and went, made a move with us across state lines, was the most social, and our only original.
Sometime last month, as Olivia and I were playing in the yard, I noticed that Red looked a bit funny. I'm not quite sure how to explain it, except to say that once you're familiar with your hens, you know when something is off. Red wasn't acting as robust or sassy as usual, and was even resting on the ground. She was so chill in fact that she even let Olivia walk over and pet her on the back several times. Seeing this unusual behavior, I knew something was wrong.
Olivia went down for her nap and I returned outdoors to inspect my hen. She looked like she was in pain and felt like a football when I picked her up. The words "egg bound" came to mind. I wasn't entirely sure where I'd heard the term, but I immediately searched her symptoms online (as do many urban chicken farmers, I'm sure) and the term fit her to a "t". Sadly, and unbeknownst to me, our poor little red hen was in her last moments on earth. Knowing only that I felt a deep obligation to help her, I followed the only suggested protocol to help an egg bound hen.
The first step was to give her a warm bath, in hopes that she'd relax (and unpucker) enough to allow her egg to pass. So, I found myself sitting on our back patio, a large tub of warm water in front of me, bathing a chicken, petting her and saying sweet things to try and get her to relax. I was relieved to see her settle into the water and even bow her head and close her eyes as she experienced some relief.
The next part of the protocol was the most unpleasant, but by golly, I was going to do what I had to. Equipped with a glove and a prep bowl of olive oil, I had to go where no finger wants to go. The idea is that massaging inside the vent where the egg drops will soften the area enough to make way for the egg to come out. Although I was able to gently preform this procedure, Red was too plugged for recovery. Upon the completion of her treatments, she promptly flopped out of my arms, had a seizure, and died.
Watching this horrific sight, I had an out-of-my-mind illusion that if I could get her to stand, then she would be able to run around, lay her egg, and live forever. This sounds absurd, I know, but in a panicked moment, that's where my mind went. Her seizure stopped and when I saw our beloved hen was gone, I cried. And when I say cried, I really mean that I bawled. It was awful.
Only a few minutes before, I had shot Andrew a text, teasingly asking him to send up a prayer for me before I played chicken doctor. It was a sad day for our household. Andrew had spoken to a vet and based on what he told her, she said it sounded like Red was a day or two into being egg bound, and at that point, there was nothing to be done. Most chicken keepers simply discover their hen already gone, before knowing whats wrong.
It may sound silly, but we still miss our Red. She will go down in our family's history as a favorite pet. She laid beautiful brown eggs almost on a daily basis, and had quite a spunky personality. For a chicken that is.
We have since replenished our dwindling flock, and added a red sex-link, and two buff orphingtons. We got them at 7 weeks old, already past their awkward teenage stage, and have integrated them into the flock with Milk Toast and the Dread Pirate Roberts (DPR). D.P.R. has established herself as the bossy alpha female, and the little hens know to make way when she comes around.
As of this moment, all is well in the coop. Everybody is getting along (for the most part), two hens are laying, with the little ones just a month or two away from beginning their laying. Our only possible, foreseeable problem...is that one of the hens...is starting to look like a dude. Time will tell, but the memory of one hen in-particular will live on.
A grainy, quick-snapped sighting of a large and unusual bird that once graced our bird bath. :)
Several chickens have come and gone since that time, but the one original that has remained is Red. She has always been our favorite. She survived the drought, remained #1 alpha hen of the coop no matter how many others came and went, made a move with us across state lines, was the most social, and our only original.
Sometime last month, as Olivia and I were playing in the yard, I noticed that Red looked a bit funny. I'm not quite sure how to explain it, except to say that once you're familiar with your hens, you know when something is off. Red wasn't acting as robust or sassy as usual, and was even resting on the ground. She was so chill in fact that she even let Olivia walk over and pet her on the back several times. Seeing this unusual behavior, I knew something was wrong.
Olivia went down for her nap and I returned outdoors to inspect my hen. She looked like she was in pain and felt like a football when I picked her up. The words "egg bound" came to mind. I wasn't entirely sure where I'd heard the term, but I immediately searched her symptoms online (as do many urban chicken farmers, I'm sure) and the term fit her to a "t". Sadly, and unbeknownst to me, our poor little red hen was in her last moments on earth. Knowing only that I felt a deep obligation to help her, I followed the only suggested protocol to help an egg bound hen.
The first step was to give her a warm bath, in hopes that she'd relax (and unpucker) enough to allow her egg to pass. So, I found myself sitting on our back patio, a large tub of warm water in front of me, bathing a chicken, petting her and saying sweet things to try and get her to relax. I was relieved to see her settle into the water and even bow her head and close her eyes as she experienced some relief.
The next part of the protocol was the most unpleasant, but by golly, I was going to do what I had to. Equipped with a glove and a prep bowl of olive oil, I had to go where no finger wants to go. The idea is that massaging inside the vent where the egg drops will soften the area enough to make way for the egg to come out. Although I was able to gently preform this procedure, Red was too plugged for recovery. Upon the completion of her treatments, she promptly flopped out of my arms, had a seizure, and died.
Watching this horrific sight, I had an out-of-my-mind illusion that if I could get her to stand, then she would be able to run around, lay her egg, and live forever. This sounds absurd, I know, but in a panicked moment, that's where my mind went. Her seizure stopped and when I saw our beloved hen was gone, I cried. And when I say cried, I really mean that I bawled. It was awful.
Only a few minutes before, I had shot Andrew a text, teasingly asking him to send up a prayer for me before I played chicken doctor. It was a sad day for our household. Andrew had spoken to a vet and based on what he told her, she said it sounded like Red was a day or two into being egg bound, and at that point, there was nothing to be done. Most chicken keepers simply discover their hen already gone, before knowing whats wrong.
It may sound silly, but we still miss our Red. She will go down in our family's history as a favorite pet. She laid beautiful brown eggs almost on a daily basis, and had quite a spunky personality. For a chicken that is.
We have since replenished our dwindling flock, and added a red sex-link, and two buff orphingtons. We got them at 7 weeks old, already past their awkward teenage stage, and have integrated them into the flock with Milk Toast and the Dread Pirate Roberts (DPR). D.P.R. has established herself as the bossy alpha female, and the little hens know to make way when she comes around.
As of this moment, all is well in the coop. Everybody is getting along (for the most part), two hens are laying, with the little ones just a month or two away from beginning their laying. Our only possible, foreseeable problem...is that one of the hens...is starting to look like a dude. Time will tell, but the memory of one hen in-particular will live on.
A grainy, quick-snapped sighting of a large and unusual bird that once graced our bird bath. :)
May 1, 2013
Springishness
Sunshine pouring down, warming face and hair,
it feels good to be outside, renewing energy, breathing fresh air.
Ladybugs dancing atop the chamomile flowers,
little girl eating radishes, could stay in the garden for hours.
Lettuce tops ever reaching, the sweet peas are in bloom,
reminding me of coming things, a harvest will be soon.
Dirt, sun, air, and water, all things being fed,
an image of my need to eat His daily bread.
it feels good to be outside, renewing energy, breathing fresh air.
Ladybugs dancing atop the chamomile flowers,
little girl eating radishes, could stay in the garden for hours.
Lettuce tops ever reaching, the sweet peas are in bloom,
reminding me of coming things, a harvest will be soon.
Dirt, sun, air, and water, all things being fed,
an image of my need to eat His daily bread.
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