So I’m 50 minutes into my time in the Hen Pen, right?
I’m annoyed already. It’s late. I’m tired. And I’m not in power here.
I hate when I’m not in power.
Don’t judge me. I know I’m not alone in this.
Usually, about this time, I’m done with hearing what’s on sale at the CVS, who’s gonna die on the Gossip Girl, or about how fat the girls are getting.
But not tonight.
Tonight is bad-kid night.
See, the thing about the Hen Pen is that, not only are the hens here, but their baby chicks, who are too young yet for cheer training (but you can rest assured will be signed up as soon as they can daily practice with minimal stunting to their growth) hang out here too.
And sometimes they get sick of hanging out here.
So they get on the mats and equipment that is in this area.
Until the owner comes out and tells them to get off.
Then they fall out on the floor and scream and kick and generally make little pests of themselves.
The hens, not wanting to be embarrassed in front of the other hens, thereby risking loss of power in the eyes of the group, try to console and shush them, blaming all their life’s problems on that “mean lady” who won’t let them play on the equipment.
Never mind that it’s expensive.
Not to mention that the chicks playing on the equipment allows the hens to be left alone by their baby chicks long enough to deal with what’s really important in life.
Like Gossip Girl and CVS.
Need I go on?
I want to shake these women. Yes, the women, not the children. The children are doing exactly what they’ve been trained to do. I want to tell them about the cure for that problem. They should know that children don’t have to act like that. That they don’t have to be terrorists.
All children, mine included, have the potential to terrorize situations like this. In essence, all children have the capacity to become terrorists. The only thing that stops them is proper training.
And a lot of prayer.
And, perhaps, a trip to the bathroom from time to time.
Pick her up, I want to say to the clueless hen, and take her to the bathroom and deal with this in private. She’s two, for goodness’ sake. What are you gonna do with her when she’s four, or fourteen?
Then the Diva, who’s not perfect but has some training, comes out to get a drink of water, smiles that smile at me showing me her pre-braces, crooked teeth, and I remember to be thankful. Thankful that I had a Mom who wasn’t afraid to handle her business, teaching me how to handle mine.
Then, again. What do I know about being a mother? I let us run out of toilet paper today.