Over the course of an entire weekend, because we are tired parents and cannot commit to a three-hour movie in one sitting, my husband and I watched the Godfather. The violent scenes were few, but unwitnessed: I would bury my face in Timothy’s shoulder and ask “can I look can I look when is it over is it over yet?” The same face-burrowing happened a few weeks earlier, when we watched the Patriot. I have no stomach for blood.

The first time it happened, I found Sam—a unisex name since we were uncertain if the chick would turn out to be a rooster or a hen—face down, wings outstretched, the other babies carrying on scratching and pecking and fluttering as though their yellow sibling was not stiff in the pine shavings right next to them. The loss was not unexpected; Sam had developed pasty butt, which is exactly what it sounds like, and I had attempted to rescue the little chick by washing its rear end (to clear the paste) and then using a hair dryer to keep it warm afterward. My efforts were not enough, and I was glad that I was the one to find Sam. The chicks were still young enough to be in our kitchen, huddled under the heat lamp.

Click click click BOOM. Every time I cook anything on the stove, it starts with these sounds, with a little flame, with a whoosh of blue fire, with the faint scent of gas. It isn’t like our old electric range, which was sluggish, flat, and flameless. This is quick to ignite, and there’s no way to miss it. With our old stove, I’d leave the house and fret about forgetting to turn the range off. But my husband assures me that won’t happen now: I can’t miss the fire, I can’t miss the sound. It’s clear the heat is on. Even after it’s lit, I can hear the little hissing, the puff puff puff.