It started with a cardboard box, a heat lamp, and six day-old chicks that fit in the palm of your hand. We had been talking about getting chickens for almost two years before we actually did it. Then one afternoon in early spring, we just went ahead and ordered them.
The first few weeks were more nerve-wracking than we expected. We checked the brooder temperature every few hours. We read forums at midnight. We worried about pasty butt and medicated feed and whether the garage was warm enough. Nobody tells you that raising chicks is basically like having very fragile, very loud houseguests who don’t understand personal space.
But somewhere around week four, something shifted. The chicks started to look like actual chickens. They started having personalities. One of them — a big Buff Orpington we named Dolly — figured out that if she jumped up onto the edge of the waterer, she could see across the whole brooder. She’d stand up there every morning surveying her kingdom like she owned the place.
The first egg came on a Thursday. It was small and brown and still warm when we found it, tucked in the corner of the nesting box. We stood in the coop staring at it for longer than we’d like to admit.
That’s when we knew we were in this for real.