Morning

Instead of writing letters to our pen pals at the Mexico orphanage (at church) today, we're at home. Courtesy of one snuffly, snotty, snuggly little mouth-breather who finds it impossible to remain in her own bed, and one puking in the wee hours ponytailed girl.

There was a racket in the night and the two chickens that had been missing are now: one dead, one presumed so. One was found in a tree, where the raccoon had hauled it. Gak. This brings us down to half of what the flock had been. E's favorite was the one in the tree. G doesn't want her to know because she'll be so upset.

Wish me luck.