Still Becoming

Nobody warned me that one day I would have a favorite stove burner.

Not a favorite stove.

A favorite burner.

The front-right one, if you’re wondering.

Why?

I have no idea.

There’s nothing special about it.

But it’s mine.

And if someone else is using it, I immediately become suspicious of their cooking choices.

Nobody warned me that I would develop strong opinions about grocery store layouts.

I had a system.

A route.

A flow.

I knew exactly where everything was.

Then one random day somebody decided to move everything around and suddenly I’m wandering the aisles like a confused pioneer trying to find coffee.

Nobody warned me that candles would become an essential part of my decorating strategy.

Not because I actually light them.

I don’t.

At least not often.

They get lit about twice a month when I deep clean.

The rest of the time they simply sit there providing emotional support.

Caramel latte.

Bourbon.

Apple cinnamon.

Pumpkin pie.

Not a vanilla candle in sight.

Apparently I have standards.

Nobody warned me that one day I would become the mayor of a tiny feathered town.

Current population:

Thirty-nine.

That includes one turkey named Frank, two roosters named Felix and Pretty Boy Floyd, thirty-six chickens in various stages of life, which includes six babies currently occupying valuable living room real estate under a heat lamp.

Chicken math is real.

Nobody warned me that I would know exactly where every bird is supposed to be at any given moment.

I know where Frank is.

I know where Felix is.

I know where Pretty Boy Floyd is.

I know where the babies are.

I know which birds belong in which coop.

I know who gets along.

I know who doesn’t.

I know who thinks they’re in charge.

Yet somehow someone in my house still asks where the ketchup is.

The ketchup.

The same ketchup that has lived in the refrigerator door since approximately the Obama administration.

The same ketchup that can be located by opening the refrigerator and looking directly at it.

Yet I am apparently the designated ketchup locator.

Nobody warned me that after raising children for years I would eventually lose custody of my own shoes.

Or hoodies.

Or phone chargers.

Or scissors.

Or pens.

Or anything else that can be borrowed and mysteriously relocated.

Nobody warned me that I would become responsible for remembering everyone’s appointments, school events, permission slips, water bottles, backpacks, and grocery items.

And somehow, after reminding everyone to write things on the grocery list, I would still be blamed when we got home without the item that nobody actually wrote down.

Nobody warned me that fishing trips would become some of my favorite memories.

Not because we catch fish.

We seldom do.

But because one of my sons talks my ear off the entire time.

About everything.

And someday, when he’s older and busier and doesn’t need Mom quite as much, I suspect those conversations will be worth far more than any fish we never caught.

Nobody warned me that sitting on the back deck talking about animals with my son would become one of my favorite ways to spend an evening.

Or that couch snuggles with my boys at eleven years old would feel so precious because I know they won’t stay little forever.

Nobody warned me that one day I would own a snake.

Five years ago I walked into my kitchen, found a rat snake, jumped onto the table, FaceTimed a friend, and requested immediate husband-based snake removal services.

I was terrified of snakes.

Not uncomfortable.

Terrified.

Panic attacks and hyperventilating terrified.

Then one of my sons fell in love with snakes and desperately wanted one.

Now we have Zoe.

A ball python.

And somewhere along the way, the woman who once stood on a kitchen table became the woman who searches the house if Zoe escapes because she’s worried something might happen to her.

Or that she might get cold.

Nobody warned me that I would overcome one of my biggest fears only to discover I actually liked the thing I was afraid of.

Or that I would become the person responsible for buying frozen rats.

Life is weird.

Nobody warned me that peace wouldn’t look the way I thought it would.

I thought peace would be some grand thing.

A vacation.

A getaway.

A perfect moment.

Instead, peace looks a lot like moonlight over a chicken coop.

A turkey named Frank tucked in for the night.

Baby chicks chirping under a heat lamp in my living room.

A snake named Zoe secure in her enclosure.

A cat climbing into my lap and rubbing its face against mine.

A son talking my ear off while we’re fishing.

Another son sitting beside me on the deck talking about animals.

A clean house.

Freshly washed sheets.

A hot bath.

A Coke Zero.

A quiet car after work.

Ten uninterrupted minutes of silence.

Peace, I’ve discovered, isn’t found in the extraordinary moments.

It’s found in the ordinary ones.

The ones we’re tempted to overlook.

The ones that become memories before we realize they mattered.

Nobody warned me that adulthood would mostly consist of collecting stories I never saw coming.

A turkey named Frank.

A snake named Zoe.

Thirty-nine birds.

Emotional support candles.

A favorite stove burner.

A refrigerator door that apparently hides ketchup in another dimension.

And a life that looks absolutely nothing like the one I imagined when I was younger.

And honestly?

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because it turns out the best parts of life are rarely the things we planned.

They’re the things that quietly find us along the way.

And sometimes…

they’re wearing feathers.