The City of Edmonton has approved backyard chicken coops. If you are me, this is of interest because you have this image of yourself:
Wearing a long skirt (that I don’t own), a gauzy cotton blouse (that I also don’t own), a big straw hat (I’d have to buy that) with bare feet (phew, doesn’t involve a trip to the store) I was going to be the woman with the blue and white striped ceramic bowl (Which I would have to buy), taking care of her chickens. I am also 4 inches taller, about 40 pounds skinnier and my hair is pulled back in a perfectly smooth braid.
My chickens are cute and fluffy and they don’t require much maintenance at all. I stroll in the backyard in my earth mother outfit and I collect eggs and pick lettuce and peas from my garden and it is always sunny.
I spent twenty minutes googling chickens and coops and thinking about this life. Well, this day dream.
I am not an earth mother. I wear make up and perfume and I cannot fathom a circumstance in which I would not wear a bra.
For years really this was my dream. If I could just get to a point where I was like all of the other wives at church -If I could wear long skirts and grow organic food and have 10 children, with an ever present smile of my face and a plate of healthy cookies at the ready –
I’m not that woman. I’m short and I live in jeans and a cardigan and I work too much and I love high heeled shoes and I talk about politics and wear red nail polish. I am not plain and simple. I do not possess a quiet and gentle spirit.
We talked about the chickens at dinner last night. We talked about them and we joked and Mr. Spit and I agreed – that’s not who we are. Mostly we talked about the last time we talked about getting chickens, which was when I was pregnant with Gabriel.
I’m not getting chickens and that’s ok. It’s not who I am.
I might have been her, if Gabe stayed. Maybe. Possibly.
But he didn’t.
And I’m not.