The Chicken Butt Experience

Sis has really been blossoming lately. It’s like something in her brain finally clicked into place, cause and effect, consequences, the whole package. She’s starting to realize it’s easier to just follow directions than argue with me every five seconds (praise be).

It’s wild how much more fun everything is now. We can actually go out and about without me sweating through my shirt trying to keep her from bolting across the parking lot like a scared gazelle. She listens when I ask her to do things. She can hold a real back and forth conversation now instead of just dumping every single thought she’s ever had into the air.

For the longest time she kept it all inside, practicing her little sounds in secret, refusing to answer unless she was positive she was right. And now? She’s out here narrating life like she’s got her own podcast. Girl’s got joke… yes one. Every seventeen minutes it’s, “Guess what?” and before you can breathe she’s screaming “CHICKEN BUTT!”, her closer at Madison Square Garden.

We’re currently in season three of The Chicken Butt Experience, airing live and unfiltered from the backseat of my car, the grocery store, and occasionally the toilet. It’s got recurring guests (me), zero plot, and a soundtrack of juice box slurps and sibling shrieks. Critics are calling it “relentless.”