Feather Babies

5 turkeys disappeared from the hay barn somewhere between Saturday sunset and Sunday morning. No substantial forensic evidence to conjecture by. Just gone. Two whites are all that are left of the doomed flock. My investigation of the blackhead which doomed them hasnae made it above the chaos of childish grief, parent grief, CPS mandates and lawsuit lotto yaddahs. Nothing of the suspected blackhead is confirmed. My rudimentary research of the suspicion fell apart at, "No known treatments or prevention." The tidbit hit my fresh grief like a mean girl bully campaign. Where and when the fuck is the next sucker punch going to come from?

During those weeks when the still new custody arrangement was still temporary and the housing upgrade was projected to be done by now, I planned another increase of the chicken flock. Colorful egg layers are the focus of this increase, with hopes of having those eggs ready for Easter egg hunts after the children had actually witnessed a full brooding growth cycle. That hope is looking shabbier by the day. This week finds me wondering if I should cancel the flock increase order. Still just wondering. We see what grows.

Big Bro was remarkably more calm yesterday. The simplicity of, "We are waiting to hear when they are coming to get you." seems to have put a stop to the 6 year old echoes of the manipulative cajoling from the other grandparent house. For now, at least. 6 year olds are very incitable and even less predictable. "One Day at a Time" is a big chunk of time change on the 6 year old scale. We'll deal with the next round of lawsuit lotto antics when they arrive. If they arrive. The lawsuit lotto nuts on my own family tree have notoriously short attention spans. Their scheme themes are highly repetitive but their targets vary with their social media feed of the day. This phenom might have been my first clue that none of us are as unique as social isolation would have us believe. The combinations of details vary far more than the elements in the mix.

The sleep energies in the house feel calm this Monday morning. I think we might be Not Worse. It's propaganda week at the Elementary School this week. Prayers in progress that the political slogans donae trigger Big Bro into flashbacks of the day after the funeral when he was issued his bully citation. Just praying. . . ABCDEFG. . . Please send back the letters that I need.

I donae believe Big Bro was/is aware enough to have understood the confusion of his Drug-Free parents being forced onto Med Therapy. Nobody on my family tree at ease with the diffs between drugs and meds. Not even the licensed pharmacists on hubby's branch. Can we pick one and make it work?

Politics and propaganda are so fun. . . "Military Intelligence" wasnae my favorite part of my Army experience. Insert military sitcom sarcasm here. Which club is the owner of the truth? Can I contribute a middle finger salute?

Beaten crazy bitch wolf a-growling. . . Don't fuck with my pups.

Just breathing. . .