The Gosselins have been another of my guilty pleasures ever since my husband, flicking channels one night after a day of moving house with a six-month old, a two-year-old and a five-year-old, came across Jon attempting to put all six toddlers into ski suits and we settled in for a good bout of schadenfreude. I resisted their pull last season as the marriage imploded (just too prurient) but I can watch Kate parent her eight on her own with only a few qualmsâ€”and who could resist the fabulous juxtaposition of two cultural trends that is the spectacle of Kate Plus Eight â€¦ getting chickens?
Because, of course, I want chickens. I envision them pecking around the yard, the kids caring for them and gathering up the fresh eggs, us adding an element of responsibility and authenticity to the kidsâ€™ worldâ€“and listening to Kate as she tells the camera how she thinks the chickens will add to their lives, I hear all my chicken dreams reflected back to me. But I live in rural New Hampshire, and I have plenty of friends with chickens. I already know that, like so much else in the Gosselinsâ€™ heavily planned but so often gone awry lives, chickens arenâ€™t likely to live up to their bucolic promise.
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