Chicken balancing

The routine is, Sundays I upload the assignments.

That statement still reads strange to me. I could have said, Sundays I walk about with a chicken balanced on my head.

So I'm a little perturbed by what I do on Sundays, but I'm not sure why. I have to work that out. Meanwhile, excuse me while I adjust this chicken.

Most importantly, Tiger is attached to this new routine. So I'll continue to balance those chickens until she's had enough.

Admittedly, it's always a little difficult to tell with Tiger: first she'll complain that she hates everything. Then she'll ask for more assignments, more chickens, just like the last one, because that was fun!

This is not unusual. I can present her with the exact same thing and watch her reaction swing between delighted enjoyment and bat-shit crazy. But I think with the chicken balancing routine, she likes how she can use it to show her diligent and conscientious side. She tells me how her spelling's improved, how she likes the subjects, how she's interested in finding out what is over there. I can sympathise with that.

It's working for the others, too. Shark says the chickens are a good idea. So long as she can do what she likes with them, in her own way. Of course. That suits her. She's already picked the university. She instructs me straight, Give me the work and leave me alone.

Squirrel says it suits her best. She adds, wisely, that if there wasn't a weekly chicken balancing routine, she wouldn't do anything. She says she would do nothing, all day long!

I think she underestimates herself. She's produced a fine range of papier mache pots and thrown some coconuts off the roof. But I don't insist she really follows much, because it's not her style. She'll come to her own conclusions, in her own way. I insist on the geography chicken and the chemistry chicken. The first so we can all test out a structure and have an excuse to talk about exams, and the second because once a week we're in company with a load of chemists. Frankly, I want to keep us on track, and I don't want to look like an idiot.

But there's one thing that all three kids agree on: the chickens are a perfect excuse to get rid of a sister. You can use them to say, I want to be left alone. I want to do this. And everyone seems to understand how important that is.

Well, everything might all change next month. Or next year. Or the year after that. Or when these kids become teenagers proper. It could all go wrong for one, and all so right for another. I might drop the chickens at any moment. I might be more concerned with putting locks on windows and fighting off unsuitable friends. We might be in Hong Kong, England, or Dig might have accepted a lucrative career in pimping.

For my part, I can't ever decide. I do shoulder shrugging and c'est la vie and OHMYGOD and ITSALLADISASTER. I inhabit a half-life of resignation and the best I can live and put the kettle on.

So I've come to the conclusion that maybe the chickens are useful to me, too. When I sink, then I can cling to a chicken, and that might help me float back to the surface.

Well, I'll let you look at my chickens, if you want. But anyone must understand that there's a life beyond blogs, no, really, even for me! We talk a great, great, deal. So I don't expect our chickens to make much sense, especially not by Tuesday when I may have resorted to straps around the little chicken feet.

And as for maths, don't ask. Dig is in charge of maths. He's not bothering with stupid chickens. Of course not. He is far more pragmatic. At some stage the solution for him will involve a credit card and a tutor.

Now if you want to peek round my chickens, of course you can. They exist in the name of our education.