John has been building a new coop. It is to replace the two doghouses that have sheltered the middle flock safely for six months. But the hens were smaller last spring and recently they have been indignant about being stuffed in such cramped quarters. On the ground. Chickens prefer to be up high, an instinct that protects them from predators.

John asked lots of questions about latches, and nesting boxes, and ramps. He had finished the basic structure when I decided I could lend a hand. I threw on a coat and bopped back and forth between the kitchen, where Ben and his new wrap around therapist were making apple pie, and the deck, where John was tangled in the cords of power tools. The therapist had never made a pie before and needed help maneuvering the apple peeler/slicer. What was easy for me was new to her. Out on the porch, John handed me a power drill and explained about the bit fitting snugly in the screw head before pushing the button. He was patient when I stripped a few. 

I invited the twins to help. It was cold and they seemed a tad reluctant. At first it felt as if they were there to critique John's work. He asked if they would sand the perches, and I pictured an hour of methodical scraping back and forth. But he handed them the electric sander, and they almost jumped out of their chairs. In that instant they swiveled from observers to participants. They had skin in the game.

Hope went first, and Aurelle asked her dad if he had another sander. Who has two electric sanders? She waited her turn, and together they smoothed the edges of the two by twos, the openings of the nesting boxes and the splintery doorway. The surfaces felt good. 

We decided to name each box. The coops all have names, and this all important feature deserved as much. 

"Benedict," I suggested. "Poached."

"Huevo," suggested Aurelle who is learning Spanish. 

Hope wrote oeuf in curly letters on the fourth box. 

It can be tempting to cast ourselves as the commentator in our own marriages. Calling each play, with a heavy dose of judgment, leaves us sitting in the warm observation box. But when we are head bent, smoothing out the splinters there is less time to criticize.