MommyCoddle

What Easter morning looked like here

Cinnamon rolls.

 

New peeps.

Fun dip? Not a good idea.

Real reason to celebrate.

 

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.

 

Shopping with the Amish

We all grocery shop.

It’s a mundane and often unstimulating experience. But there is one grocery trip that I make about 4 times a year, with my mother in tow, that is always a bit of an adventure.

We travel north in her pick up truck, about an hour’s drive to a not-so-fancy establishment called BB’s. Home of the “bents, bumps and bunches of bargains!” You never quite know what you will find there, but so far, the treasure trove of bargains has always outweighed the cost of gas and time to travel there.

It is run by the Amish. There isn’t much competition in the parking lot.

The shopping experience leans more towards treasure hunt. Looking for pig brains in milk gravy this week? No problem! On sale for only 50 cents!

And every time, I find something, at least one thing, that makes the whole trip worth it.

Today, Starbucks coffee, a good supply, at only $3. We’ll be sipping pretty here at home.

It is the place to find a lot of organic and unusual food items at really cheap prices. I even heard one lady refer to it as a “boutique grocery”. I’m not really sure of that. There is nothing fancy about it. There is no artistry to produce display.

But today the shelves were stacked high, as well as my cart. Both of them.

And as my mother and I slung our grocery bags into the back of her truck, I marveled at the other modes of getting your groceries home.

Again, a successful trip. Every cupboard in my house is bulging at the seams. And I will probably do it all again in a couple months.

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.