By ANGEL KANE
Wilson Living Magazine 

So as many of our regular readers know, last summer, I issued a mandate that each of my children partake in a summer project. We have three children – so there were three separate mandates. And as I sit here today, I can’t even recall what two of them were.

So much for my mandates.

And the only reason I remember Zoe’s project is because as I sit here on my back porch typing this article, mandates number three are staring right at me.

Zoe was to raise chickens.

Zoe didn’t want to raise chickens.

Zoe wanted a rabbit.

But for some reason (that I also can’t recall) I said no to the rabbit and yes to six chickens. And so thus began my saga of the chickens. And saga doesn’t even begin to describe this past year.

From mandating until I am blue in the face that “someone feed those %$&^# chickens!” to spending many a cold night, making sure the heat lamp was on them, (ok – honestly, I didn’t do this – Brody did – but I still had to hear about it).

From finding chicken sitters when we are on vacation, to partaking in multiple rescue missions when their coop has been destroyed by coyotes… there is no doubt in my mind that I have become the crazy chicken lady.

And like many people this world has dubbed crazy, I’ve suffered unparalleled loss and tragedy to get me to this point.

Four of our chickens have met with terrible and I mean terrible demise. So much so that the two that remain, suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Meaning if a human is out and about, they run to our sides for protection.

Another reason why my kids call me the chicken lady is because each evening as I water my plants, Rolo and Little Jerry Seinfeld will immediately come to my side.

If it wasn’t so crazy looking, it might be endearing. But no…I’m thinking it’s just crazy looking. Mostly because the entire time they are shadowing me, I’m saying ugly things to them, which is where the CRAZY part of chicken lady comes in.

So as I sit here at the patio table typing this piece, they are nipping at my feet.

Which reminds me that there will be no living, breathing mandates this summer.

Instead, we are going old school - mandates will consist of reading lists, summer camps and vacations.

And chicken sitters, of course.