Yesterday, whilst I was tootling around doing errandsÂ with the kids, I fell, as many are wont to do, to trying to perfect various farm animal sounds.Â One has to while away the minutes somehow: can you name a better way than to perfect farm animal sounds?
Just late last week weâ€™d gone to Little Farm — just what it sounds like: a wee, working farm, with a little bit of everything you’d want in such a place — in the nearby regional park with a school chum of the girl childâ€™s. Â So the barnyard’s aural landscape was still crisp in my mind. I had the chicken down pretty well, but the turkey escaped me. Â I went back and forth between them, but was continually tempted to stick with the chicken sound, since that one was the one that made me feel successful. Like, Man Do I Have a Cool Parent successful.
Then the girl child casually pawned off this gem: â€œBaba, if you practice chicken, youâ€™re going to get nowhere with the turkey.â€
Well shet my mouth. Â Now, whenever I find myself avoiding the shin-skinning scramble up the rough scree of challenge for the comfortable, back-massaging Barcalounger of guaranteed, no-effort success, well. Iâ€™ll just try to remember the deathless words of my five-year-old: if you practice chicken, youâ€™re going to get nowhere with the turkey.