There’s much to say about the similarities between raising children and chickens. Both make a mess. Both require firm boundaries (apologies to the neighbors with the wild-bird feeder that my hens find so alluring). And both have a seemingly endless appetite and propensity to excrete smelly droppings.
Growing up, I didn’t participate in many organized summer activities. In elementary school, my farming mom once dropped my brother and me off at a one-week camp in the Oregon woods. I remember the name of my councilor, Strawberry; a scary game in which we chased each other around in the dark; and feeling very, very homesick.