Chicken mom finds out the true meaning of cooped-up, hen-pecked and free-range

We've been chicken-sitting our neighbors' hens while they are out of town for several weeks. Granted, this is what I signed up for. But I'm astounded at how these petite little birds can kick my ass on such a regular basis. I've been on a steep learning curve as I take in all the responsibilities that differentiate winter care from summer care: protecting them from freezing temps, some first-aid, as well as keeping them fed, watered and mucking out the coop. They are coming up on their one-year birthday this April, so they are all laying and we've come to know their unique personalities.

They free-range for at least an hour a day -- although they prefer more. And we're doing our best. Really. We enjoy the GreenHour that just a week ago we were struggling to fit in. My older daughter is such a wonderful chicken helper: Johnny-on-the-spot with anything I need. My four-year-old? Not so much. But doing the comb-count as the hens wander into adjacent yards is helping her nascent math skills. And she's made it her job to decorate a denuded bush with pine cones.

Me? I'm a one Chicken-Mom version of a keystone cops' routine. I chase after the hens, trying to catch and pick up the ones needing attention. If they don't free-range enough, they literally feel cooped-up and start hen-pecking one another. Resulting in bare featherless places near their tails. The chicken-wrangling allows me to treat them with various anti-peck potions: a black salve for the first layer, and a pepper spray (which I accidentally inhale every time and cough-cough-cough). I've also been begging chicken advice off all my other chicken mom friends and recently applied blu-kote on those raw-looking chicken bottoms. It did not occur to me to put on gloves, so I also am wearing a layer or two of blu-kote on my hands (which looks rather purple-ish if you ask me).

It is sometimes a struggle to get the hens back in the coop when they are not ready, but my kids need to do their homework, or the bus is coming, or we're too cold to watch the chickens scratch for more than a hour at a time. For this, there is a broom that the chickens run from. For whatever reason, they don't like its bristles. So I don't have to touch them, but can get near them with the broom, and then usually they make a bee-line away from me. Hopefully in the direction of the coop. Often not. At moments like this when I'm chasing after the hens with the broom in hand, begging them to go back home, I rather hope that the neighbors are watching, because then, at least someone might be getting some amusement out of our crazy chase and dance.

I hope I don't sound too whiney here. They have been a joy and lots of fun. Just much more work than I expected. Of course, the eggs are divine, and it's been a pleasure to share them with friends and neighbors. And I think the image of this Chicken Mom chasing hens around the yard with a broom will create funny memories to last my children a lifetime. That's my hope, at least.