Dressed up Mom verses the chickens in my beloved garden.

Here I am, up early getting ready to enjoy the first real day of Christmas break with my boys. I got up and made a wonderful breakfast for the family. I finished reading Emerson "Capin Underpants vs the Bionic Booger Boy" I have finally herded John out the door for a very important meeting, I have done a load of laundry after Emerson proclaimed that his blanket smelled like his brother's bottom. I wrapped a present for the pary that we are getting ready to go to for EACH of the boys. I even managed to squeeze in a much needed shower, for me.

Then in an effort to try to fit in for the sake of my children, I dressed nice and put on make up to go to a toddler's birthday party, because well every day in the South is like a trip to a beauty pageant helping my self confidence in my own beauty to dwindle. So, here I am, ready, early. Both the boys even told me how nic I looked.

John calls to tell me for the second day in a row he is lost. Wonderful. So then I attempt to give a very cranky husband directions to a mystery location. As if this moment is not enough to push me over the edge, I look out the window at my beloved garden and what do I see? Five _________ chickens chowing on my garden.

Now, we need to back up for a moment. I careful have covered and protected each of my raised beds to protect them from the vicious pigs with feathers that daily attempt to eat all of our food without providing a single egg. I have found help for slaughtering our chickens. But no, would John make the time to slaughter the egg less beast. Then, the topper, he thinks he can make the fencing better around the garden. He undoes what I did and redoes it to look pretty. Well buddy, pretty doesn't cut it in the world of chickens.

Now back to this morning... So my chickens are in my garden. It is war and I inted to win. Next thing I know I am plowing through the holly bushes and rose bushes with a very large pole herding 5 chickens to a tiny opening to get them out of my garden. Comical might be a word used to describe the scene from anyone other than me. Finally with the help of Isaac and a child size golf club we managed to get all 5 of them out of the garden. Now I have rose thorns in my pants, I have ripped my shirt and I am bleeding from multiple places and I have chicken poo on my nice shoes.

So long for the peaceful tranquility of the gardener. Oh and now I must run to the party.