MommyCoddle

The second, and final, installment

The last goat kidded this week. I know that sounds like a really big goat farm, but we only have two breeding age goats. The second, and last goat, LuLu, went into labor like clock work. I read somewhere that goats tend to kid at the same time of day each year. Remembering that she had birthed in the evening last year, I wasn't surprised to see the tell-tale signs start at about 6 pm. We were all excited to see what she would have. LuLu is what they call a "paint" Nubian. Like the horse, she has a lot of white. And last year she had triplets. This year, she had gotten really big, but then seemed to shrink a bit towards the end, but was still obviously pregnant.

We gave her some privacy as labored progressed, but hustled to the barn when we heard the sounds of her really pushing, sounds just like one might hear in the halls of the hospital maternity ward. Out popped one small little girl, and we were in business.

Because the first was small, I wasn't surprised to see Lu lay back down for another go 'round. But something seemed different now. Sadly, she popped out two small and very much dead twins. My girls, brave and inquisitive ones that they are, and not at all queasy, analyzed the still, lifeless forms. Pictures were taken. Seems as though the survivor, little Molly, was all that was meant to be. And thankfully, she survived. And the fact that Lu seemed to get smaller at the end, now made sense.

So today, little Molly and LuLu got some time out in the fresh green lawn and some special attention. She may be small, but she is a little firecracker. And for us, although the usually joyous experience of kidding season has ended with a tinge of sadness, the promise of a new batch of babies and the anticipation of watching them grow, training them, and showing them at the fair, has outweighed any sadness.

 

 

A walk in the wetlands

It was the last day of spring break and we were up for something. The Easter break had had it's usual fun. Family picnic---the pigs were a hit. Church. Family time. The weather was cool, but we decided to check out a new spot. Little did I know that our county owned a 30-acre wetland area complete with one mile of boardwalk to protect the delicate happenings there.

Perfect time to go. Tadpoles by the dozen.

Red-winged Blackbirds were calling everywhere. Even globs of salamander eggs. No one else was there. But raccoons had been the night before.

The perfect end to a great spring break.

 

To Market, To Market.

I couldn't resist.

Let me just back up by saying I am a girl with some of the coolest uncles around.  I have many hard-working, get to the heart of the matter, would-do-anything-for-you type uncles.  And as with most of them, anything with Uncle Bud is an adventure.  So when he called me yesterday in search of piglets for his annual family Easter picnic, complete with petting "zoo", I made the usual phone calls to any pig farmer I knew.  In the past, our barnyard has pretty much made up the whole zoo.  But piglets are something we don't have, and they are hard to come by.  Most pig operations these days are under a quarantine operation, and pigs that leave, don't come back.  No borrowing allowed.  Even if it is for the kids.  So that left us with one final option.  The sale barn.  On the phone, I warned my uncle of the possible scenarios: Watch out for hernias.  Look for diarrhea.  Nothing with crusty looking skin.  Next thing you know, a plan was in place. I was going to go with him.  And at the last minute, so were all four of my kids.

Now, if you have never been to a livestock sale barn. It is not for the faint of heart.  Lots of livestock. Some not in the prime of their lives.  Lots of dust.  Interesting clientel and audience members. Most are covered with a fine layer of dust as if they haven't ever left the joint. I think I saw Santa Claus there, too.

We got there a bit late. The sale was starting.  We wove our way through a multitude of gates to the rear of the barn where the pigs would be found.  Found a pen of nice young pigs.  I lifted each one up for inspection.  No problems.  Looked healthy.  Unlike the scraggly, lice ridden group in the next pen over.  We made our way back to the stands.  The bidding was beginning and when our pen of pigs came into the ring, I glanced over at my uncle. The price was getting too high.  But his eyes were locked on the auctioneer and I knew we were here to buy pigs.  After a rapid fire war of the dollar, he was the owner of four pigs.

He went up to pay so he could take them home. I went out to the loading dock with my four year old who, by now, was so covered in dust, I could barely make him out from the ground itself.  And then we saw them.  A newly unloaded batch of 40 tiny piglets.  Just 3 weeks old. Perfectly pink.  In talking to the owner, a brief exchange of a few small bills and we picked out two more piglets.  Now we had six.  After we had the four loaded, I shut the passenger side door of the truck, hearing the grunts and squeals of each of the smaller pigs, clutched in the laps of my two daughters. Riding shotgun with their uncle in his big work truck.

By 9:30 that night, the piggies were home from market.  Resting comfortably in a newly configured stall in my  uncle's barn.  They were ready for some quiet shut-eye. So were we.

The plan for the pigs post Easter is still unclear.   They are still suffering from a bit of post traumatic stress disorder from the whole ordeal.  But they are lucky piggies for now.  And will await the warm laps and gentle scratchings by a multitude of kids on Easter day.

 

walking her home. again.

Happy Weekend, friends.

xo.

Molly

Love, Jemima

You know it’s coming.

The date has been circled on the calendar for five months now.

The paper chain hanging over my daughter’s bed, counting down the days, is all but gone.

All the prep work has been done.

She’s been allowed out of her pen, just her, each night to jump up on the milking table, and received a treat each time she has done it. She had her hooves trimmed a month ago. She got her vaccinations at the perfect interval. She was put in her own special pen a week ago. The one with her own hot pink water bucket that clips to the side. Her own feed pan, single serving sized.The pen where golden fresh straw was fluffed just right.

 

And the signs were all there. Her udder had grown to almost impossible seeming proportions.

Yet as I checked on her before leaving for a morning of appointments, she lay there happily chewing her cud. Her deep brown eyes said to me, “No worries. I’m good. You go.”

And is the part that always makes my heart skip a beat. Just for a second.

 

The coming home to two, brand new, warm, dry babies in the pen with her. Up on their feet. Licked clean. Drinking heartily.

 

Then the other best part.

Hearing the bus roar up the hill. Hearing the stomps of their sneakers hitting the deck. A brief second of quiet as they take in the note taped to the door. It reads: “Come to the barn. Love, Jemima” The ear piercing screams of glee as back packs are dumped and they race to the barn. Gently picking up each new arrival and thoroughly inspecting them. Noticing every spot and freckle. Scratches and praise for Jemima. A walk outside for the best spring grass. Laps for the babies to sit on and warm themselves in the bright sun.

 

The newness of the season.

 

The delight of new birth.

The hope of a new life.

All of this will never get old around here.

 

 

Like little diamonds at the end...

Thought you might like to take a little peek at our streamside walk last night...(and my crazy diving dog.)

Music : Where The Road Meets The Sun | Katie Herzig & Matthew Perryman Jones

Today on Thomas Run

When Birdy went missing.

Last week, while I was on the phone with Emily, all the kids were outside playing. Birdy, who jumps at any opportunity to be outside, was standing at my hip crying because she was inside and everyone else was out. When her screaming to go out became too much to talk over, I hung up with Emily long enough to put Birdy in her boots and sent her outside--calling to her sisters to keep any eye on her. 

Emily and I continued to talk and I watched as some of the girls wandered back into the house. Finally, much later, Emma came in. Alone. 

Where's Birdy? I asked.

She's inside with the girls. 

No, she's not. You were watching her outside.

No one told me I was watching her. 

And then, there's that parenting moment where you get the immediate pit in your stomach. Deep, deep down you're pretty sure everything is just fine. But in a flash, you've systematically worked through every possible horrible scenario that could happen to your unattended toddler. And what steps you'll take to deal with the emergency. As well as the fact that you haven't showered and if you're going to need to now make a trip to the emergency room, you're looking pretty scruffy and maybe you'll be able to at least wash your hair in the kitchen sink before you go. 

Please. Tell me I'm not the only one who manages all these thoughts in course of 12 seconds?

But of course,  we found her.

And of course where else would she be but playing in the muddiest corner or our property, where the driveway meets the grass. Where the water gathers after every rain. And mixes with mud and stone and mulch and soil. 

And of course, she was wearing one of my favorite sweaters. And her best pair of jeans.

But who was watching her? Her very best pal.

Of course. 

7 Tips for taking a perfect family Christmas card photo

1. Take your photograph when your children are well-fed and rested. (Not right after church when the baby is looong overdue for a nap and everyone's low-blood sugar is resulting in impatience and grumpiness.)

2. Make sure your husband is well-fed. (Because you'll need his help to wrangle babies, arrange children, shoo chickens, and hold ponies. And if he's hungry {see above}, he'll give up on your perfect holiday photo shoot way too quickly.

3. Find a clean, white pony to add something unique and meaningful to your family's photo. (Preferrably not one that was rolling in her muddy field just as you are all walking outside to take pictures.)

4. Make sure your children are well-groomed and bathed. (or else they'll be wearing handknits in all the pictures to cover up)

5. Drain all tubs of standing water. (Because you know the baby will find them. And while you're directing the brushing of the pony and making sure noone gets stomped on by the same nervous pony, the baby will find the water and be up to her elbows in it before you turn back around.)

6. Lock in the chickens. (They distract the photographer.)

7. Remember that one of the things you love most about your family is that it's big, crazy and chaotic. But every once in awhile, you get a glimpse of almost-perfection. And there among the five hundred wacky outtakes, there'll be one that captures just that. 

 

A warmer heart

I've got a new sidekick when it comes to morning chores. 

I can't even utter the word "outside" unless I have her completely bundled. Otherwise, I'll be attempting to dress, shoe and bundle a baby squirming and wailing at the mudroom door, eager to break free from her indoor jail. 

Some days, we can't even be bothered with shoes. I'm lucky if I can get a sweater over her head and a hat secured under her chin before she's pushing through the door. 

She often brings her morning banana. I try not to think about where and how many times it is dropped. And what bits of dirt and whoknowswhat that cling to it. Or which animals she's offered a lick before taking another tiger-sized bite off the end. 

Instead of lugging her on my hip, we've discovered the garden cart makes a pretty convenient way to trek back and forth to the chicken coop. 

I put her on the concrete pad in front of the coop while I work.

She sits in the pile of chicken feed like it was a sandbox created just for her. The hens eye her cautiously, pecking around her, as she tries to feed them from her chubby palms. This must be why the hens follow her around so closely. They know she offers food.

I collect eggs, check on the babies, freshen up water, and throw clumps of soft, fresh green grass into their pen. 

When we cross back over the little wooden bridge on the way home, she is thrilled by the water running under our feet. I'm amazed at her ability to perch on the very edge of the bridge, crouched down, babbling at the water. I miss that kind of flexibility and balance. She's telling me a lot of things about that little stream. I talk back to her like I understand every word. 

Eventually, I convince her there's more to see on the other side of the bridge. But before she hits that slippery, muddy patch, I swoop her up and plop her back in our farmer's stroller. 

Her favorite friend blocks our path with a croquet ball in her mouth. A leaf dangles from her lips. She's relentless. 

If I'd let her, she'd stay out here all day. The only way I can coax her back inside is to bring the dog and a small furry kitten with me. She finally follows, waving goodbye to the crowd of animals gathered around her, like the queen of the animal kingdom.

I peel off layers, wipe her runny nose and notice her muddy sleeper-feet. And she's gone again. Disappearing into the belly of the house. Following the dog. Calling for her sisters. And I'm left to hang up sweaters, shove hats back in the basket and pry the barn boots from my feet.

The house feels warmer now than it did when we first set out this morning.

So does my heart.

things to be bummed about

I realize, that's a real uplifting title for a Friday late Thursday night post. But, in the spirit of honesty that I like to maintain on my blog, I have some bummer things to share. 

Since last Friday, Mary's most-special cat Mouse has been missing. If you've been around here for awhile, you'll know that Mouse has a special place in Mary's heart, and really, in all our hearts.

Since he was tiny, she has been toting him around until he was so big his long fluffy tail and legs seemed to drag on ground as she carried him around in her arms. When she was little, without FAIL she would wake up every morning, still in pajamas, often in barefeet, and head outside to find him, pick him up and nuzzle him. She'd sit outside talking to him and snuggling him until I forced her to come in to eat breakfast.

As he got older even just a week ago, he'd hop up onto the roof outside her bedroom and meow at the window. She'd let him in and show up downstairs each morning with him already in her arms. He was big and beautiful and he definitely belonged to her. 

When Mary was going through all her health scares two years ago, Mouse was the cat who she carried in her arms, on the car drive to get her blood drawn. He was the only reason we could convince her to calm down and get in the car.

Of all our cats--he is special. And circumstances the night before he disappeared (that I don't want to get into on here for fear of my little ones will read them), have me believing he is gone for good. 

We're all pretty heartbroken. And as Mary says, "But there'll never be another Mouse."

Nope. Never. 

____________________________________

As always, thanks for reading, friends. Thanks for following along. Sharing in the ups (and unfortunate downs) of our days on Thomas Run. 

May the weekend be brighter, warmer, and full of good things.

xo.

Molly

Lions and tigers, no bears.

Day two of our staycation had us trekking off to the Smithsonian National Zoo in Washington DC. The zoo is wonderful--twisting and turning among tree lined paths that open up into animal homes. And it's free. The parking is not (ouch), but still well worth it, and very budget-friendly. 

The girls loved it. Birdy especially. She also loved the fact that we unhinged her from the jail of her stroller and let her walk much of the day. You'd ask to hold her hand and she'd quite frankly, tell you no, and push your hand away. And despite her zig-zagging toddle up the brick sidewalks, she hardly slowed us down. 

I think Fall may be my favorite time to go to the zoo. Crowds are down. It's not hot and animals are still out and active. 

It was a perfect day two. 

Day three, today, invovled reclaiming the house from the first two days of staycation and a massive binge of laundry. 

Day four is still open for discussion. Though there's lots of campaigning for a family trip to the bowling alley. Though I can already envision chasing Birdy up the lanes...

____________________

I sincerely hope you'll take a moment to visit MommyCoddle*Likes. I am sharing the story of a wonderful, independent publishing company and they are generously giving away a copy of any book from their catalog. Please stop by and say hello. And don't forget to subscribe. 

Confessions of an irresponsible farmer

I have to confess, lately I've handed over the egg-collecting, chicken-feeding duties to my children. While I enjoy a good trek to the coop with my morning cup of coffee, I've been letting the girls handle the chore. I haven't been to the coop for much more than a nightly lock-in, in quite awhile. 

Apparently, it's been ooooh, about 21 days. 

Precisely the amount of time it takes for something magical to occur in an un-monitored nesting box.

This morning, the children on chicken-duty came blasting back into the house to let me know we had baby chicks. 

No, we don't, I told them. Silly girls. 

But I followed them out to the coop and before I even got to the door, I could hear that familiar peeping.

And there, perched in her nesting box was one of our  Rhode Island Red hens with EIGHT little fluffy chicks tucked under her breast. 

This, by far, has been one of the best surprises ever on our little farm. 

Being the irresponsible farmer that I am, slinging all chicken duties onto the shoulders of my children, the girls confessed that this hen hasn't been letting them collect the eggs she was sitting on. Usually, the girls let me know someone is broody, so we can force her out of the coop during the day. But this time, the message never made it to me. And look what the lack of responsibility for my flock produced! (I'll have to try approach this more often. I wonder if a similar technique works on the vegetable garden?)

But I couldn't share this story without acknowledging that the chick's arrival today is full of irony.

Just yesterday, there was another rooster attack--this time on Elizabeth. It meant another call to my husband reminding him that something had to be done right away. And so yesterday evening, we all hid in the house, covering our ears while Dan took care of the rooster situation. And sparing details, the task proved to be quite complicated.

But today, those roosters, in a final statement of their immortaltiy and unwillingness to leave this earth, leave us with eight fluffy legacies. And chances are, I'll find myself attempting to befriend a rooster (or two! or more!) all over again.

Bird Dog

I wish I had adequate words to describe the relationship between these two. I mean, we knew she was a special dog from the beginning, even before her accident.

It was why we emptied our piggy banks to save her. 

But to watch these two, is to watch something pretty special. 

Wherever Ruby is, you'll find Birdy. If Ruby's sprawled out on the living room floor, you'll find Birdy settled into her chest, nestled in the crook between her paws. Ruby puts up with the riding, and tugging, and hanging on. Lip "inspections" and eye pokes. 

Birdy rolls and flops and plays on her. Ruby sits and, I believe, enjoys it. She mouths her hands gently, licks her right on the kisser. 

I'll gladly put up with the dog hair- plastered footies. I'll pick the hair out of lips and noses. I'll excuse the excessive amount of food that gets shared. I'll even, just this once, dismiss the fact that she nosed her way into the room of a sleeping baby to see if she was awake. 

She wasn't.

Happy Weekend, friends.

I'll be back Monday with something new and fun....

Maybe I should call her Catherine

We have a rooster problem.

It's nothing new around here. I've chronicled our rooster troubles many times. There was Hedgie, the original rooster at Thomas Run, who helped me overcome some childhood fears and bad blood that already existed between me and the rooster-kind. He was my favorite. But we lost him on the night we lost almost everyone. 

Then, there was Roosevelt. It took two posts to write about Roosevelt, who was last seen waddling up the center line of Thomas Run, headed for the hills (or the heavens). 

But now, there's a new problem. This Spring when I purchased half a dozen chicks from the feed mill, that were supposed to all be hens, it turned out that two of those six were not. And so we now have two large Rhode Island Red roosters courting the ladies and fighting for their affections. 

Unfortunately, these roosters are a little too full of themselves. One of them has a strong dislike for one of my favorite hens and has her quarantined to the far side of the farm. If she dares cross the stream with the rest of the hens, he attacks. 

Though that alone is enough for removal from Thomas Run, it is the latest offense that is even more inexcusable. 

The roosters have set their sites on Birdy.

The first time it happened the scene was pretty confusing. There was some commotion. Birdy was on the ground crying. The rooster was near but I didn't put it all together.

The second time, I was standing right there--as he came up behind her, head bowed, feathers splayed, doing his little dance.  He jumped up, pecking her on the back of the head and knocking her onto the ground. I was too far away to do anything but shout. And it didn't deter him.

He must think she's one of his hens.

And yesterday, he did it again. 

The funny thing is, I don't think Birdy has any idea who or what is randomly coming up behind her and knocking her to the ground. She still happily wanders around behind the chickens, hands outstretched, calling them kitty. (We're working on it. Kitty. Chicky. She'll get there eventually.)

It makes time outside a little nerve-wracking. Always on the watch for the courting rooster who has a crush on Birdy.  Maybe I should start referring to her as Catherine around the hens, to keep the confusion to a minimum. 

But, alas, I sent my husband another one of those emails yesterday:

The roosters must go.