Broody blues

Henny Penny is broody. I’ve had to lock her out of the hen house for her own good. Otherwise she sits in the dark all day, desperately hoping to hatch her (unfertilised) eggs. I’ve tried lifting her out of the nesting box, removing the eggs and depositing her in the garden for some fresh air, food and water. But she just high-tails it back in there again. Half the time she’s not even sitting on an egg, or she’s sitting on one of Fluffy’s. Poor, bird-brained creature. Meanwhile, the bird-brained part of me (substantial), has been contemplating my own fading fertility. No more babies … it feels so final. It shouldn’t bother me, since I’m not very good with babies (I get even more maudlin than usual), but it does. We’d hoped for a boy. We were going to call it Tex (much to my parents’ horror). But we left our run a bit late. During my pregnancy with Sprog 2 – at age 39 – it was apparent my body was far too decrepit to cook another. Still, there’s this little voice that whispers in my head: “Why not? You don’t work anymore … play Russian roulette, see what happens …” I know what happens – childbirth, endless sleepless nights, breast-feeding angst, lots of wailing (them and me) and too many dirty nappies. On the other hand, Husband and I do have very cute Sprogs (if we do say so ourselves). There would be a science-experiment-style fascination in seeing what we could produce the third time around. But that’s not really a good enough reason … I also remind myself how expensive families of five can be – bigger car, extra seat on the plane, school fees … After giving myself a mental slap, I decide to visit the local pet shop and pat puppies instead. No, don’t go there either. My sister got a puppy and it ate all the insulation off her airconditioning system. My friend got a puppy and it stripped all the cladding off the side of her house. My mum got a puppy and it broke her heart when it died 16 years later. It was bad enough when Sprog 1’s fish died. She’s still leaving flowers on its grave. I’ve bought her a styrofoam owl thingy for her birthday on ebay. It won’t die. It has black feathers glued all over its body and big, yellow, plastic eyes. It’s really quite something.

TONIGHT’S MENU: Sausages (the sprogs), finger food at the pub (adults – it’s school-fundraiser night)