I learned the proper name for a group of chicks.
It’s a peep.
I didn’t know that.
Five of them.
My husband assured me that most of them wouldn’t hatch.
That’s why I agreed to so many eggs in the first place.
It seems as if he were wrong.
I had some trepidation about this.
The whole “hatching chickens” thing.
I’ve never held a chicken before.
Never wanted to.
They’re kind of gross.
Freaky miniature dinosaurs.
Pecking at the ground. Each other. Innocent bystanders.
I always got the sense they would eat people, if only they were big enough.
I think there was a Scooby Doo episode about that.
And now these would-be man-eaters are living in my basement.
Chasing each other through the brooder.
Huddling together when they are cold.
Pecking at everything in sight.
And peeping incessantly.
I had no idea they were so loud.
It echoes through the house.
When my husband first broached the idea, this plan of hatching chickens, I assumed he was joking.
I told him I don’t do poultry.
And yet, now, it seems I do.
I have to check on them.
I’ve been instructed to watch their backsides, to make sure they don’t catch some funky chicken infection.
As if I didn’t have enough bottoms to wipe in this house.
Because cleaning chicken butts sounds like fun.
The boy loves them.
He wants to visit them constantly.
Talk to them.
And he’s named them. Peepers. Coos 1. Coos 2. Coos 3. And Gray.
I assume these names make sense to a two year-old.
Because I’m a little confused.
But I have to admit something.
They’re pretty cute.
And they might be growing on me.