Back when I had a flock John put a ton of thought into designing my coops. They kept the chickens safe both upstairs in their dormitories and underneath, where the run was. Foxes could spy on them but not eat them. Which, if they are anything like Roald Dahl's fantastic foxes, is fodder for scheming. Between the two spaces was a ramp, which was a snap for the hens to travel once they learned. For the first few days after chicks hatched I probably looked ridiculous crawling inside to nudge them up at bedtime after their clucking mamas. Once I heard a chick all the way from the front door cheeping pathetically at dusk, when she could not find her family. They had all scurried up when she was busy getting dessert. I scooped her up and snuggled her under her mother's downy breast. The cheeping stopped. 

 

But John did not think to include a lock on the roof. It lifted up, which made it easy both to gather eggs and clear out poopy wood shavings. Neither of us thought that predators would be able to lift it, so it seemed sufficient. 

 

Then one blustery night, it blew open. I was horrified when I came in the morning to see the flock huddled in a ball of fluff. The lid on their world had blasted off. They felt, and were, incredibly vulnerable. Fortunately no hawks were in the neighborhood that day. 

 

John kindly mended the hinge and added a hook and eye. Sometimes I rigged a bungee cord as well. Take that, Aeolus. 

 

Raising small children has its share of exhaustion. Frustration. Paint peeling irritation. But then again you can respond. Change tacks. Hire a babysitter. Shake it up.

 

There is a peculiar kind of vulnerability after they grow up. You no longer cook their lunches, or sign consent forms. They pay their own phone bill, and decide where to go on Saturday night. But they remember. And have a trunk load of assessments about what went down when they were little and we were big. 

 

No one warned me about this, in the shelves of parenting books I consumed in the pursuit of Good Parenting. Having adult kids who are dissatisfied with their childhood feels like the roof has blown off. It is too late to change, and there are no neutral witnesses. Just our skewed memories. 

 

A friend and I went out for lunch, and she opened the lint trap on her mothering. Two of her adult children had decided it was time to weigh in on their childhoods, and did not hold back. I held her heart while she cried quietly, and resisted the urge to debate back with proof that she had indeed done well by her family. I could remember the Christmas bashes, and trips to the beach. I had been there at cook outs and more than a few parties.

 

In the next few days while I held her in compassion, a new notion poked up like a brave green daffodil trying to bloom between snowstorms. Being a mother is not a contest, to score points and win a trophy at the end. Mothering brings its own joy. Mixed in with the angst and poopy diapers are the moments of snuggling on the couch, and kissing pink cheeks while they sleep. 

 

In that realization the whipping winds of regret died down. The warm parts of our past were safely under the roof of my mind.