So, one of our pet chickens died a few mornings ago.
And I cried, sitting on our flight of stairs, naked.
Why was I naked, you ask?
Well, I was just about to jump in the shower when my husband began hollering for me from the living room. But that's not the point. The point is that I was naked, on the stairs, crying over a dead chicken. Who am I?
A hormonal new mom who likes her pet chickens way too much.
But listen, the point of this post is not to discuss me crying, naked, over a dead chicken.
It's about figuring out the right time to teach your children about death.
I know, big leap.
Lara is only 2, and therefore we felt she wasn't able to comprehend her chicken dying quite yet.
So, I hatched a plan. If she noticed the chicken missing, she would learn the chicken took a one way flight to Hawaii (Thanks Kait). However, this conversation would only happen in the event we couldn't get another chicken into the coop in time.
But don't worry, my friends. Earlier this afternoon, I threw on my black Uggs, jumped into my heated black leather seat, and drove down to my neighbors house to pick one up. I always pictured chicken people wearing worn out plaid shirts, tucked into their Levi's, driving a beat up 'ol Ford Truck.
Not wearing furry black boots and yoga pants. But there I was, with my cardboard box and leather gloves, ready to capture a chicken. All for my two year old daughter.
The things we do for our children...I mean, seriously. The girl had ponies in her front yard for her first birthday, and looking back, I'm actually kind of embarrassed at the spectacle I created. But, I digress..
The point is that we intended to go to great lengths to ensure we would NOT have to have the death conversation with our two year old.