The other day after trying (for ten minutes -- in dumping rain -- with cars honking at me) to chase a flapping and frenzied chicken back into the safety of our fenced yard, I called my ten year old out to help.
Within about two minutes he had it in his hands: held safely and firmly with wings pinned down -- just like you must to keep them from flapping their way insanely free again.
"Wow! Abe! Great job!" I cheered. "I can not believe you caught it!" I continued; as we made our way, dripping wet, towards the gate in our fence. "That was amazing!"
"Mom," Abe said, in a slightly embarrassed tone, as if he didn't quite deserve the praise I was heaping upon him. "It wasn't just me." Pause. "I said a prayer." Oh . . . I was also thinking of doing that . . . I mean probably I was going to think of it . . . maybe in a few more minutes.
Geez, who are these kids? And who on earth has been raising them!