It’s cold here today. Really cold, and last night it was in the 20s. In anticipation of last night’s hard freeze, Philip and I spent an hour lowering the heat lamps in the brooder, and he humored me as I convinced myself that putting thin pieces of styrofoam over the top of the brooder would help conserve heat.
Baby Meander with her guardian, Caruso – my dad’s dog.
Rest in peace, big guy.
I just needed to do everything I could to try and keep those tiny, fluffy bodies warm.
And it worked. Everyone is cooing and peeping away contentedly in the coop today.
In a few days – when it’s warmer and I’m more at ease in my new role – I’ll be pretty laid-back about the birds as I am now about Meander. (When she was spayed and cried out in pain in the night, I sobbed.) But when I become responsible for anything new – especially if it has a mouth – then I get a little frantic. I don’t sleep well, and I’m on the edge of tears. I worry.
I expect that about the time I get completely comfy with the birdies we’ll get puppies and goats, and the cycle will start all over again. (Pray for Philip. 😉 )
You see, I take my responsibilities seriously, especially the ones who depend on me entirely for their survival. This newness comes with a certain level of anxiety.
Here’s the thing – I’m okay with that. I don’t want to be nonchalant about any life – human, avian, canine, feline, or caprine. I want to be sensitive to needs, to comfort, to fear.
It would be easier if I would callous myself off. There’s no doubt. For one, I could watch nature shows without crying, and Philip would definitely be able to see a lot more of the Alaskan reality programs he loves. I’d also not get my feelings hurt so often, and I wouldn’t find Facebook posts bringing me to tears on a daily basis.
But then, well, that wouldn’t be me, and I like me and all my sensitive, teary self because being me means that I get to feel the joys big, too.
So I’m off to check on the babies again. I expect they’re just fine, but you know, I worry.