Jenna Nienhuis

Misty hobbles over Carrot Cake, who nuzzles in a nest of pine shavings.  Hey-Hey scratches herself with her waxy four-pronged feet. Oreo Junior hops onto the water feeder and looks down upon her brood, vying early on for her rank in the pecking order. Their tiny beaks tap tap tap against the sides of the tin trough. An early comb of ridges forms on the tops of their little heads, and they look up at me with a side eye.

Cheep, cheep, cheep, they all sing, and I hear this mellow call for days in my sleep. I stare at them like I’m in a meditation. And then subsequently Google and Google: Are the chicks warm enough? What happens if they poop in their food? How do we know if we accidentally have a rooster?

My three daughters run over to me while I’m in the garage with my feathered friends. They instantly bend over the brooder trough and reach in; their hands swing around like a claw machine—miss, miss, capture! They practice gently cupping the chicks with two hands, but it’s chaos, with wings flapping everywhere. I overhear someone trying to “teach” Misty how to fly.

My littlest daughter, Mara, with her halo of golden curls and a heart for the slow life, is heading into kindergarten this upcoming fall. The grief of her moving out of the baby phase is now unavoidable. And shocking, really. How did we get here so fast? All those damn Grandmas from the grocery store were right – it does go by fast. I have been putting off feeling this sadness for a long time, and accepting the deeper truth that follows: she will likely be my last baby. Now I am desperate to go back in time—but not really. I am desperate to be the person and the mother I am now, and get to mother her, all of my girls, at every age, all over again.

In order to cope, I have been researching homeschooling or world schooling, or maybe we should live on a boat or move to Mexico, or some other type of life that seems to move more slowly, or where I would be more present and wouldn’t miss anything due to scrolling or distractions.

How do I imprint Mara on my memory as she is now? Do I draw her? Write about her? Stare at her all day? “I got a bad dream, Mommy!” she cries in the middle of the night, as if it were an ailment she has caught. “I got bleed, Mommy!” when she stubs her toe. How will this free-range nature girl cope with wearing shoes to school next year?

I’m not really a farm-animal kind of girl. The smell is abrasive, and, sensory-wise, all the flapping and dust make it a bit of a nightmare. More poop, more others to feed, water, and care for.  I’m already overwhelmed, okay? But every day I walk into the garage hoping my little chickies are still doing well. I come and go from the house, singing to them – hellloooooo my little peepers. A familiar warmth swells in my heart as I sit next to them and watch them exist, flap around, and huddle together.

What else can I mother? I wonder, as I look at the chicks we are raising.

As I pick up my paintbrush.

As I lay my weary self under the warmth of the sun.

As I meticulously pull the suckers from the massive tomato plant in our garden.

Earlier this morning, I did a workout in the family room, and Mara lifted some weights with me. We giggled and cut strawberries for her school lunch. We sat down at the blue, circular breakfast table and scooched our chairs together all the way. She ate Cheerios, and I had peanut butter toast. She talked to her blueberries as she ate them one by one. “I’m gonna eat you!” and in they went.

We got into the car at 9 am, and Mara said, “This is the best day of my life!” and I said, “Why?” and she said, “Because you and me got to have special time.”

It’s so simple, but not always easy to be present as a mother: to sit when my internal motor is running, ignore the bubbling of restlessness, or relax my productive mind while “playing” or working on a puzzle.  But presence — daring to be there for the heartbreaking beauty and precious boredom — always softens the ache of time passing; at least I was there for it.

As we all hover over the brooder, I mention how big the chicks are already getting. “You know, nothing lasts forever, Mom,” my oldest daughter says, peeking around the corner to adolescence.