Chickens.
But, you say, I thought you were excited about chickens? I am. That's part of the problem. The other part is that I'm worried to death that I'm going to fail miserably at this venture. I credit my mild obsessive-compulsive tendencies with this fear, as the only way I can be certain to do a good job at anything is to be too early, over-prepared, and wringing my hands with fret. This, of course, is a stupid, stupid way to think but I believe that it is partially not under my control and so I can only try and talk myself out of it. This leads to an utter lack of sleep.
Our very good friends are building the coop and committing to keeping the hens for the next two years at the very least. They will probably do the majority of the feeding, cleaning, and will have to put them out in the chicken tractor every day or so. Raising the chicks seems like a pathetic contribution to all that work, but I am still determined to do it. It feels right and so I will do it. But boy am I scared. Let me explain why my neuroses is turning my brain into a scramble at nearly midnight on a random Wednesday.
The chickens are shipped to Big R on March 20. That's a day and a week. In that time I need to know (see: over-prepared) exactly how to raise chicken babies. (I already know this because I've read the same bloody thing in a handful of different books by now, but my brain insists that I don't know enough.) I also need to get all the supplies that were offered by a friend of Tina's who has raised chicken babies before (and the only panic in this is that I don't already have them). One book mentioned a ceramic socket so the heat bulb doesn't melt the plastic and start a raging electrical fire. There is no way to explain my extreme phobia of electrical fires in so little space, so this particular facet of chicken-rearing has me feeling a little faint. Then there is the issue of working full time after getting said chicken babies.
I'm terrified. What if something goes wrong when I'm not home? What if the heat lamp explodes? What if it falls into their crate and ignites them and no one is there to help? What if they get too cold and die a slow, freezing death and no one knows? Chicksicles. WHAT IF I KILL THEM ALL?
A good friend who has chickens of her own suggested to get an extra few above the number we're planning for because there will be a couple that inevitably die. How on earth do you choose a number to plan for this? We want six chickens. Do we get three extra? Four? What about six in case they are particularly prone to, well, death? How do I relegate myself to knowing that a good percentage of the chicks I purchase will be dead when I come home from work some time? What if I get attached? (Stupid, stupid question.) What if THEY ALL DIE?
I suppose my main theme here is that I'm responsible for a potential dozen, innocent lives, and I'm terrified that working full time is going to ensure their untimely demise. Yes. Yes, that is the whole thing right there in a nutshell preventing my slumber.
On top of this, I keep reading that hens take 24 weeks from birth to start laying. That's 6 months. I'm no mathematician, but even I know that buying chicks three months before summer (which is when you want them to lay) seems like a useless endeavor. So why are chicks being sold NOW? Are the books incorrect? Will chicks lay at 12 weeks? Are the chicks being sold 12 weeks old already? Are they magic chicks?
I'm going to go look for some NyQuil.
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