In my early days of motherhood, when I first tasted that shocking loss of independence, my mom taught me to seek out simple pleasures. For her, it was the treat of a fountain coke and a mystery novel, lingered over in the car while she waited for us to get out of school. This is how I learned to consider a cup of tea on the back porch a few moments of indulgence, and a brisk walk to the mailbox under a sunny sky something to treasure.
Anyway, when I found myself driving home from the feed store a couple weeks ago with six peeping balls of fuzz in a box on my son’s lap, I was thinking about Mom’s simple pleasures. I could make an argument that these chicks are for the kids, that watching a pair of feisty Silkies hold a tug of war over a slimy garden worm is something only a five-year-old boy could enjoy. That would be the worst sort of lie.
Because when the house is quiet, the kids tucked away, it’s just me left marveling at this tiny fluff of creation.
Posted in life at frog creek