The Boys Are Back In Town
Farmgirl FINALLY brought a boy home. She went and picked up Louis from a neighboring town and brought him home to play for the month. Louis is a very young male...smaller than the three matriarchs of the herd, but he knew exactly what to do. The following is rated PG13.
Belle and Tiny were grazing happily in the pasture when a fascinating new smell drifted up. "Yes...yes it is!" screamed Tiny. "It's Eau d'Buck! And it's coming closer!" For those of you who have never smelled Eau d'Buck, it is not something you can really describe to the uninitiated. Think of a combination of old urine, fresh urine, and semen all mixed up together with goat fur. Yea, it makes Farmgirl really glad she's not a goat...and that she doesn't have a buck. It's so strong that Tiny and Belle could smell it coming long before we pulled in the drive, and they got everybody else out of the barn and waiting at the gate.
Louis, being young and relatively small, had never been allowed to play with girls before. But experience is not necessary when instinct kicks in. He got one whiff of Tiny, who was in heat, and within 2 minutes of unloading him, they were going at it. Belle was furious. "First of all, you slut, you're supposed to play hard to get. At least make him chase you!" Tiny had presented her backside to him as soon as he was out, and even wagged her tail to make sure he got a good nose-full. Belle continued her tirade. "Second of all, I AM the herd queen, which means I get dibs!" But no one paid her any attention. It reminded Farmgirl of a jilted girlfriend following her ex and his new girlfriend around, trying to get him back...with an Alanis Morrisette song playing in the background.
After about an hour of Tiny and Louis having their party, and Belle whining about it being her turn, Louis decided to let her play. "Oh, you want some of this?" he said in his best sleazy voice. "How YOU doin?" And Belle finally got her turn. Socks never went into full heat, but Louis doesn't really get that "no means no," so she got a turn, as well. Farmgirl isn't sure about Bailey and Shadow. Since Shadow feels that she's too good for anyone to touch her, AND she is lightening fast, it's doubtful that Louis managed to have his way with her. We'll know in a couple of months.
Louis went home the week before Christmas, and Farmgirl was SO glad to be rid of him. It is grosser than gross to watch him test for hormones by sticking his head in a stream of doe pee. YUCK! Then when Farmgirl feeds everyone, he likes to scratch his head on her pants, which is the LAST thing she wants. I'm sure the unfriendly neighbors got a good laugh watching her try to feed while running around the trough and Louis giving chase. Artificial insemination is looking better and better.
But the girls are feeling oh so satisfied, and they get expensive alfalfa hay for the next 4 months to support the pregnancy (it's like folic acid for goats). Farmgirl is feeling oh so satisfied, too, because she outsmarted mother nature...babies will come in Spring instead of Winter!!! No more sitting in the barn in the middle of the night when it's 20 degrees, waiting for labor!
Happy New Year!
Monday, December 31, 2012
Friday, November 2, 2012
Birds, Bees, and Sex on the Farm
What a fun title to type!!! Are you shocked?? It's really not as sleazy as it sounds...don't be afraid to keep reading.
When Farmgirl and her family moved to their little slice of heaven, the neighbors across the road - the ones that resent the goat opera (see earlier post) - were not very happy. They don't like people anymore than they like goats. They are old and don't want any more "city" families invading their turf. They were pretty ugly to us, but in an effort to create peace, Farmgirl made bread (albeit with a boxed mix and a bread machine) and took it to the lady of the house. She gave a jar of honey from her bee hives in exchange, and then continued to be ugly to us. Now, Farmgirl was pretty ignorant about honey bees when she first got out here, and those hives sit 20 feet from her mailbox and driveway. She had nightmares about kids getting attacked as they walked home from the bus, or the bees attacking someone who was mowing... all sorts of scary things. As it turns out, the bees are a whole lot nicer then the beekeepers. We've never had any problem with them, and in fact they've been very helpful in pollinating the fruit trees. Lesson learned: as long as you aren't allergic - and we aren't - bees are our friends. Farmgirl always knew that in her head, but didn't actually believe it until she lived with them for a couple of years.
Birds are an entirely different story. Case in point: our nemesis - the chicken hawk from hell. She and her devil spawn chicks stalk the pasture on a weekly basis. So Farmgirl puts the chickens in the coop, which they HATE, until she disappears. It's awful to watch them pace, and frantically peck at the door, and try to make a break for it during feeding time. When the hawk hasn't shown up for a week or two, they get to go back out to free range. But she's not gone...NOOO...she is just lying in wait. This hawk is huge, so it's a total mystery how she's managing to stay hidden. The current score is her: 3 (number of birds she's killed and not even had the decency to eat) and Farmgirl: 1 (number of pellets that have actually hit the target). Federal law and Farmboy, who doesn't trust Farmgirl with a real shot gun in a semi-rural area, protect that you-know-what from the real firepower, but pellets are fair game. The goal here is for the hawk to understand that those chickens just aren't worth the psycho red-head patrolling the pasture with her son's pellet gun. Those pellets hurt, I'm sure. Maybe she'll get tetanus.
Sex on the farm, you ask? Well, the goats are in heat...like CRAZY horny-in-heat. Belle is the worst. She alternates between rearing up and head butting everybody and then trying to hump them... the other does, chickens, Farmgirl, the fencepost...it doesn't matter. And oh, the hollering!!!
"PLEASE, mom, PLEEEEEASE bring us a boy! We are dying!!! We NEED to get laid right now!!! This is an emergency!!"
Farmgirl has told them that the family is going on a trip over Spring Break, so babies must be born in April. That means no sex until December.
"DECEMBER?!?! But we'll never make it that long!!! We have needs, mom!"
Sorry, girls, the fencepost will have to suffice for now. Or... if you can catch that hawk...
When Farmgirl and her family moved to their little slice of heaven, the neighbors across the road - the ones that resent the goat opera (see earlier post) - were not very happy. They don't like people anymore than they like goats. They are old and don't want any more "city" families invading their turf. They were pretty ugly to us, but in an effort to create peace, Farmgirl made bread (albeit with a boxed mix and a bread machine) and took it to the lady of the house. She gave a jar of honey from her bee hives in exchange, and then continued to be ugly to us. Now, Farmgirl was pretty ignorant about honey bees when she first got out here, and those hives sit 20 feet from her mailbox and driveway. She had nightmares about kids getting attacked as they walked home from the bus, or the bees attacking someone who was mowing... all sorts of scary things. As it turns out, the bees are a whole lot nicer then the beekeepers. We've never had any problem with them, and in fact they've been very helpful in pollinating the fruit trees. Lesson learned: as long as you aren't allergic - and we aren't - bees are our friends. Farmgirl always knew that in her head, but didn't actually believe it until she lived with them for a couple of years.
Birds are an entirely different story. Case in point: our nemesis - the chicken hawk from hell. She and her devil spawn chicks stalk the pasture on a weekly basis. So Farmgirl puts the chickens in the coop, which they HATE, until she disappears. It's awful to watch them pace, and frantically peck at the door, and try to make a break for it during feeding time. When the hawk hasn't shown up for a week or two, they get to go back out to free range. But she's not gone...NOOO...she is just lying in wait. This hawk is huge, so it's a total mystery how she's managing to stay hidden. The current score is her: 3 (number of birds she's killed and not even had the decency to eat) and Farmgirl: 1 (number of pellets that have actually hit the target). Federal law and Farmboy, who doesn't trust Farmgirl with a real shot gun in a semi-rural area, protect that you-know-what from the real firepower, but pellets are fair game. The goal here is for the hawk to understand that those chickens just aren't worth the psycho red-head patrolling the pasture with her son's pellet gun. Those pellets hurt, I'm sure. Maybe she'll get tetanus.
Sex on the farm, you ask? Well, the goats are in heat...like CRAZY horny-in-heat. Belle is the worst. She alternates between rearing up and head butting everybody and then trying to hump them... the other does, chickens, Farmgirl, the fencepost...it doesn't matter. And oh, the hollering!!!
"PLEASE, mom, PLEEEEEASE bring us a boy! We are dying!!! We NEED to get laid right now!!! This is an emergency!!"
Farmgirl has told them that the family is going on a trip over Spring Break, so babies must be born in April. That means no sex until December.
"DECEMBER?!?! But we'll never make it that long!!! We have needs, mom!"
Sorry, girls, the fencepost will have to suffice for now. Or... if you can catch that hawk...
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Passionate topic time
Although I have a lot of fun referring to myself in third person and laughing at my farming trial and errors, this is a serious post... one that calls for first person omniscient (you know, where the author is the narrator and she knows everything).
I just had a conversation with a good friend about a subject that is near and dear to my heart: ADD and other learning disabilities, the journey with a child touched by these, and all the educational implications that come with it. I am on the downhill side (notice I did NOT say "end") of that journey with my 14 year old son, and the uphill side - but considerably less steep - with my 10 year old daughter. My friend is just about to take her first step - and she needed advice. I have SUCH strong feelings about this subject, and I have so much to say about it, that it's on my heart to write it down. So pardon my digression from humorous goat management stories.
Teachers started calling me about my son when he was four. It seemed he couldn't sit still during story time. He wasn't just restless and fidgeting, either. He was running around the room at top speed while all the other children were sitting quietly on the carpet. I had no idea how much that first phone call foreshadowed the next ten years, or how much it would change everything about me and how I think. It's especially profound since before I became Farmgirl, I was a teacher.
We pretty much progressed through the same stages that all parents in our situation go through:
1) He's just a boy...that's how boys are, and I'm sick of the teacher-doctor conspiracy that over-diagnoses this for the sake of quiet classrooms.
2) OK, maybe he does have ADHD, but I am NOT putting my kid on Speed (Amphetamines).
3) If one more person compares this to a parent withholding insulin from a diabetic kid, I will go homicidal!
4) Let's try the Feingold diet and 15 other very expensive alternative treatments, from neuro-feedback, to acupuncture, to special physical therapy for brain-training.
5) I give up...I can't have these homework battles every night, I can't take any more teacher/principal phone calls, and my son thinks he's a stupid, good-for-nothing, waste of a human. Give him the drugs.
6) I can't believe we didn't do this sooner.
7) Have the meds stopped working because of his hormones?
8) He doesn't want the meds anymore because he doesn't like the way they make him feel in the evening. How can we help with this?
9) Wow, this kid is turning out ok...I think we're actually going to live through this.
It's no coincidence that those steps get progressively more rational...that's a God-thing. With my daughter, we got to skip steps 1-8. She isn't so bad that she needs medicine, not only because she's a girl (it looks VERY different in girls), but because she is the most self-driven little girl I have ever met, and she reads social cues better than she reads books. She struggles more with a learning disability in math than with ADD.
So as I'm sharing all this with my friend - and telling her what kind of a doctor to see, how it will be diagnosed, and what teachers can and can't say, and all the different alternative treatments we tried, and what I've noticed in her child - I'm struck by all I've learned. It changed the way I teach and tutor - I learned more about education from my son than I ever did in college. It changed the way I interacted with my students and their parents. It affected the way I planned lessons and assessments. It gave me more insight into the minds of boys, and showed me how significant the link is between gender and learning. It made me infinitely more patient. All-in-all, it has been SO much more of a gift than a burden. Why couldn't I have seen all this at the beginning of the journey, or even in the middle?? (Duh - because it requires the journey to learn it, which is probably why God dropped it on me in the first place).
My son, while he still struggles to stay organized and read social cues about when he's being obnoxious and annoying, has developed a deep empathy towards the struggles of other kids. He is so kind-hearted and non-judgmental...the only people I ever hear him criticize are the ones picking on the kids with problems. He knows what his weaknesses are and he consciously works to overcome and compensate for them. When he doesn't do as well as he can and should, he recognizes it and tries to do better the next day. How many other kids have that kind of self-awareness at 14??? He tells me everyday that he loves me, and he knows how hard I work to help him, and he appreciates it. He actually says that to me all the time! He even tells me when I do too much and cross the line into enabling. He wouldn't have that frame of mind without the struggles he's been through.
While my daughter is by far easier to parent, my son has made me a better person...and continues to inspire me everyday. There were so many days when I thought college would never be possible for this kid, he would never find a girl that can put up with him, and he will live with us until he's 50. I am ashamed at my lack of faith, and in awe of his emotional and mental growth. He will move out, go to college, and (God-willing) get married...which is the only thing on that list which I consider optional.
So for those of you that might read this and be at stages 1-8: there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it's really bright. Don't be discouraged by the daily battles and pitfalls and teacher phone calls and zeroes in the grade book. However, I will say this: I'm not sure how people do this without God in their life. My sense of peace and ability to see the big picture is ONLY because a lot of people pray for us every day. My mommy prayer group has saved Kyle from being verbally abused several times. Especially when my PMS is visiting, it's really a choice between God and Child Protective Services.
I could write more - pages and pages more - but that's the snapshot that I wanted to present. I'm going back to the pasture (and third person limited) now with a clear conscience that I have done what God told me to do. "Peace out," as my kids would say.
I just had a conversation with a good friend about a subject that is near and dear to my heart: ADD and other learning disabilities, the journey with a child touched by these, and all the educational implications that come with it. I am on the downhill side (notice I did NOT say "end") of that journey with my 14 year old son, and the uphill side - but considerably less steep - with my 10 year old daughter. My friend is just about to take her first step - and she needed advice. I have SUCH strong feelings about this subject, and I have so much to say about it, that it's on my heart to write it down. So pardon my digression from humorous goat management stories.
Teachers started calling me about my son when he was four. It seemed he couldn't sit still during story time. He wasn't just restless and fidgeting, either. He was running around the room at top speed while all the other children were sitting quietly on the carpet. I had no idea how much that first phone call foreshadowed the next ten years, or how much it would change everything about me and how I think. It's especially profound since before I became Farmgirl, I was a teacher.
We pretty much progressed through the same stages that all parents in our situation go through:
1) He's just a boy...that's how boys are, and I'm sick of the teacher-doctor conspiracy that over-diagnoses this for the sake of quiet classrooms.
2) OK, maybe he does have ADHD, but I am NOT putting my kid on Speed (Amphetamines).
3) If one more person compares this to a parent withholding insulin from a diabetic kid, I will go homicidal!
4) Let's try the Feingold diet and 15 other very expensive alternative treatments, from neuro-feedback, to acupuncture, to special physical therapy for brain-training.
5) I give up...I can't have these homework battles every night, I can't take any more teacher/principal phone calls, and my son thinks he's a stupid, good-for-nothing, waste of a human. Give him the drugs.
6) I can't believe we didn't do this sooner.
7) Have the meds stopped working because of his hormones?
8) He doesn't want the meds anymore because he doesn't like the way they make him feel in the evening. How can we help with this?
9) Wow, this kid is turning out ok...I think we're actually going to live through this.
It's no coincidence that those steps get progressively more rational...that's a God-thing. With my daughter, we got to skip steps 1-8. She isn't so bad that she needs medicine, not only because she's a girl (it looks VERY different in girls), but because she is the most self-driven little girl I have ever met, and she reads social cues better than she reads books. She struggles more with a learning disability in math than with ADD.
So as I'm sharing all this with my friend - and telling her what kind of a doctor to see, how it will be diagnosed, and what teachers can and can't say, and all the different alternative treatments we tried, and what I've noticed in her child - I'm struck by all I've learned. It changed the way I teach and tutor - I learned more about education from my son than I ever did in college. It changed the way I interacted with my students and their parents. It affected the way I planned lessons and assessments. It gave me more insight into the minds of boys, and showed me how significant the link is between gender and learning. It made me infinitely more patient. All-in-all, it has been SO much more of a gift than a burden. Why couldn't I have seen all this at the beginning of the journey, or even in the middle?? (Duh - because it requires the journey to learn it, which is probably why God dropped it on me in the first place).
My son, while he still struggles to stay organized and read social cues about when he's being obnoxious and annoying, has developed a deep empathy towards the struggles of other kids. He is so kind-hearted and non-judgmental...the only people I ever hear him criticize are the ones picking on the kids with problems. He knows what his weaknesses are and he consciously works to overcome and compensate for them. When he doesn't do as well as he can and should, he recognizes it and tries to do better the next day. How many other kids have that kind of self-awareness at 14??? He tells me everyday that he loves me, and he knows how hard I work to help him, and he appreciates it. He actually says that to me all the time! He even tells me when I do too much and cross the line into enabling. He wouldn't have that frame of mind without the struggles he's been through.
While my daughter is by far easier to parent, my son has made me a better person...and continues to inspire me everyday. There were so many days when I thought college would never be possible for this kid, he would never find a girl that can put up with him, and he will live with us until he's 50. I am ashamed at my lack of faith, and in awe of his emotional and mental growth. He will move out, go to college, and (God-willing) get married...which is the only thing on that list which I consider optional.
So for those of you that might read this and be at stages 1-8: there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it's really bright. Don't be discouraged by the daily battles and pitfalls and teacher phone calls and zeroes in the grade book. However, I will say this: I'm not sure how people do this without God in their life. My sense of peace and ability to see the big picture is ONLY because a lot of people pray for us every day. My mommy prayer group has saved Kyle from being verbally abused several times. Especially when my PMS is visiting, it's really a choice between God and Child Protective Services.
I could write more - pages and pages more - but that's the snapshot that I wanted to present. I'm going back to the pasture (and third person limited) now with a clear conscience that I have done what God told me to do. "Peace out," as my kids would say.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Blue Belle
Well, August is here. In Texas, that means all those people who were complaining about the heat in July start passing out. Those of us who know what August brings try to plan vacations to the Rocky Mountains, and every year in the past, Farmgirl and her family have loaded up the RV and headed to cool Colorado for some relief. But this year, due to competitive soccer and tomorrow's impending tonsillectomy, the family was forced to stay and endure the 109 degrees that comes every day at 4:00. We discovered that the temperature of the goat's water was hot enough to scald hands, so Farmgirl adds a pitcher of ice to the tank four to five times a day. This is in addition to the pop-up shade we installed to cover the water, which is managing to lower the water temp from almost boiling to very-hot-coffee level. It is definitely time to upgrade to a real barn so we can avoid problems like this. But due to the aforementioned tonsillectomy for Farmgirl's daughter, that's going to have to wait a while. Hospital bills trump the barn. Oh well.
Baily is no longer nursing on Socks, because Socks never really enjoyed mommy-hood anyway, and cut her off in early June. Tiny, ever the perfect mother, continues to allow everyone to nurse on her, even though the "babies" are pretty much the same size as she is. They basically have to lay down under her, and if poor Tiny had tiptoes, she would be standing on them the entire time. Belle, who lost her babies to a very premature birth back in February, is still in milk, in spite of the fact that she has not been milked in 3 months. Farmgirl has explained to her that the big bad boys will be arriving in October, and it would be in her best interest dry up before her date with them. But so far, she is resisting that logic.
Speaking of Belle, she has some nasty scabs on her bag. Farmgirl tried treating it with udder balm, but after two weeks, it wasn't getting better. Farmboy has laid down the law about excessive vet bills, so Farmgirl went to Tractor Supply to see what she could find. Hmmm, something called Blue Kote...which the label says is germicidal AND fungicidal, so that should cover all the bases. Guess what it does NOT say on the label? It doesn't say anything about wearing gloves or protective clothing during application of the product. Yes... Farmgirl's shorts, right hand and several left fingers were a lovely shade of sapphire. One week later - and countless applications of fingernail polish remover, olive oil, goo-gone, and exfoliating scrub - they have faded to pale lavender. But it seemed to have worked...Belle's bright blue udder is now almost wound-free. Farmgirl's son would say she had a DA (dumb ass) attack, because she should have known that any product called "Blue Kote" was probably going to do that. He's right, but we're going to call it a "rookie mistake" instead, because it's less insulting, and it doesn't get your mouth washed out with soap.
Baily is no longer nursing on Socks, because Socks never really enjoyed mommy-hood anyway, and cut her off in early June. Tiny, ever the perfect mother, continues to allow everyone to nurse on her, even though the "babies" are pretty much the same size as she is. They basically have to lay down under her, and if poor Tiny had tiptoes, she would be standing on them the entire time. Belle, who lost her babies to a very premature birth back in February, is still in milk, in spite of the fact that she has not been milked in 3 months. Farmgirl has explained to her that the big bad boys will be arriving in October, and it would be in her best interest dry up before her date with them. But so far, she is resisting that logic.
Speaking of Belle, she has some nasty scabs on her bag. Farmgirl tried treating it with udder balm, but after two weeks, it wasn't getting better. Farmboy has laid down the law about excessive vet bills, so Farmgirl went to Tractor Supply to see what she could find. Hmmm, something called Blue Kote...which the label says is germicidal AND fungicidal, so that should cover all the bases. Guess what it does NOT say on the label? It doesn't say anything about wearing gloves or protective clothing during application of the product. Yes... Farmgirl's shorts, right hand and several left fingers were a lovely shade of sapphire. One week later - and countless applications of fingernail polish remover, olive oil, goo-gone, and exfoliating scrub - they have faded to pale lavender. But it seemed to have worked...Belle's bright blue udder is now almost wound-free. Farmgirl's son would say she had a DA (dumb ass) attack, because she should have known that any product called "Blue Kote" was probably going to do that. He's right, but we're going to call it a "rookie mistake" instead, because it's less insulting, and it doesn't get your mouth washed out with soap.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Summer...ugh...enough said
Farm girl is struggling with a wicked bout of PMS, so this might be a bit negative. She will be fine (back to her normal bi-polar self) in three days.
Summer in Texas sucks. It is unbearably hot, it never rains, and on the occasion that it does rain, it comes with severe weather challenges. Since we had a mild winter this year, you can add a ridiculous insect and arachnid population to the hell. Farmgirl is going through gallons of bug spray, and STILL gets eaten alive by chiggars every day, twice a day, when she feeds the animals and collects the eggs. She has gone her entire life without seeing a really poisonous spider, but since May, she has found three black widows and two brown recluses... one of which was in the laundry hamper. The "good" news is that they are all in the freezer (in the expensive Tuperware, no less) waiting to be pinned to a styrofoam board for the AP Biology arthropod project due in September. Farmgirl's son is sure that God has arranged these things just for him, so that he will have the most awesome collection in the class. I guess my Tuperware sacrifice and bravery in helping to collect specimens can put a few points in the "good mom" column.
The oldest child spends all day playing video games, which makes Farmgirl feel like a rotten mother (five points in that column). But she doesn't feel quite bad enough to make him quit, because then he'll annoy her about being bored, and it's too hot to make him go outside. Occasionally she does make him go collect the eggs and feed the animals so the bugs can eat him instead. The youngest, who is too active to handle video games and TV, annoys Farmgirl every minute she's home with whines of boredom. She is enrolled in as many sports camps and activities as financially possible to defray her boredom, and Farmgirl tries to schedule LOTS of playdates. But when she is not involved in one of these activities, she is completely unable to occupy herself for more than 30 minutes. Again, Farmgirl must be the worst mommy ever to create such children... 10 points... rotten mommy column is WAY ahead at this point.
Last night was the annual stress-fest that is known as the 4th of July. Dogs, goats, and chickens alike all HATE fireworks. Based on the chaos coming from the neighboring pasture, so do horses. But living in the country, there are no city ordinances to prevent the hooligans from shooting them off until 3:00 am. Starting at dusk, Farmgirl starts passing out sedatives and Xanax to dogs. She gets tempted to take them herself and hide until morning...but she has enough guilt to deal with for not going to see city fireworks with the family...more points in the rotten mommy column. Goats in milk can't have drugs, so she has to go check on them every hour to make sure they haven't committed suicide. The chickens are on their own, but between the heat and the stress, there will be feathers everywhere instead of eggs for the rest of the week. Someone close must have been setting off grenades, not fireworks. What can possibly make that kind of noise other than a cannon?
This morning, all goats are accounted for and fed, the dogs are still in a coma for a few more hours, and Farmgirl is having a quiet moment on the computer before the kids wake up. All is well, and she realizes that no one is keeping score about good mom vs bad mom except her. She takes a few deep breaths, and recognizes the hormone-induced paranoia for what it is and what it means - absolutely nothing. September is only 7 weeks away, and she'll miss the bored kids and curse the busy-ness of the school year. And when goats start having babies in a freak snowstorm in March, she'll gladly take the insects that come with a mild winter instead.
New title - Farmgirl gets a grip.
Summer in Texas sucks. It is unbearably hot, it never rains, and on the occasion that it does rain, it comes with severe weather challenges. Since we had a mild winter this year, you can add a ridiculous insect and arachnid population to the hell. Farmgirl is going through gallons of bug spray, and STILL gets eaten alive by chiggars every day, twice a day, when she feeds the animals and collects the eggs. She has gone her entire life without seeing a really poisonous spider, but since May, she has found three black widows and two brown recluses... one of which was in the laundry hamper. The "good" news is that they are all in the freezer (in the expensive Tuperware, no less) waiting to be pinned to a styrofoam board for the AP Biology arthropod project due in September. Farmgirl's son is sure that God has arranged these things just for him, so that he will have the most awesome collection in the class. I guess my Tuperware sacrifice and bravery in helping to collect specimens can put a few points in the "good mom" column.
The oldest child spends all day playing video games, which makes Farmgirl feel like a rotten mother (five points in that column). But she doesn't feel quite bad enough to make him quit, because then he'll annoy her about being bored, and it's too hot to make him go outside. Occasionally she does make him go collect the eggs and feed the animals so the bugs can eat him instead. The youngest, who is too active to handle video games and TV, annoys Farmgirl every minute she's home with whines of boredom. She is enrolled in as many sports camps and activities as financially possible to defray her boredom, and Farmgirl tries to schedule LOTS of playdates. But when she is not involved in one of these activities, she is completely unable to occupy herself for more than 30 minutes. Again, Farmgirl must be the worst mommy ever to create such children... 10 points... rotten mommy column is WAY ahead at this point.
Last night was the annual stress-fest that is known as the 4th of July. Dogs, goats, and chickens alike all HATE fireworks. Based on the chaos coming from the neighboring pasture, so do horses. But living in the country, there are no city ordinances to prevent the hooligans from shooting them off until 3:00 am. Starting at dusk, Farmgirl starts passing out sedatives and Xanax to dogs. She gets tempted to take them herself and hide until morning...but she has enough guilt to deal with for not going to see city fireworks with the family...more points in the rotten mommy column. Goats in milk can't have drugs, so she has to go check on them every hour to make sure they haven't committed suicide. The chickens are on their own, but between the heat and the stress, there will be feathers everywhere instead of eggs for the rest of the week. Someone close must have been setting off grenades, not fireworks. What can possibly make that kind of noise other than a cannon?
This morning, all goats are accounted for and fed, the dogs are still in a coma for a few more hours, and Farmgirl is having a quiet moment on the computer before the kids wake up. All is well, and she realizes that no one is keeping score about good mom vs bad mom except her. She takes a few deep breaths, and recognizes the hormone-induced paranoia for what it is and what it means - absolutely nothing. September is only 7 weeks away, and she'll miss the bored kids and curse the busy-ness of the school year. And when goats start having babies in a freak snowstorm in March, she'll gladly take the insects that come with a mild winter instead.
New title - Farmgirl gets a grip.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Goat Arias
There's a new diva in town... and she's working like crazy to give Streisand a run for her money. Up til now, Belle has been our only resident singer. When she wants grain, hay, or attention, she sings... very, VERY loudly... until she gets it. When she sees farm girl walk past the gate to go get the mail, she sings even louder. Belle feels strongly that farm girl really shouldn't be doing anything other than serving Belle and her many demands, and since Belle doesn't get many letters, that does NOT include walks to the mailbox. Sadly, Belle's neighbors don't like goats, and they especially don't like goat opera. They feel that she should be more respectful of their quiet farm lifestyle. So needless to say, the addition of some back-up harmony is not being well-received.
The harmony is provided compliments of Bailey, daughter of never-makes-a-peep-quietest-Nubian-ever, Socks. Farm girl thinks Socks might be missing vocal chords - or whatever it is that goats have in lieu of those. Even in the full throws of labor and delivery, Socks didn't make a sound. But Bailey - not so much. Bailey thinks that Farm Girl is her mom, despite the fact that she was never a bottle baby. She feels that Farm Girl should live in the barn and hold her all the time, and so she cries in an attempt to induce guilt. On nice Spring days, it often worked. But it's getting hot now, so the humans prefer to stay in the AC or in the pool. So Bailey sings and sings, and then Belle starts because she's demanding that Bailey shut up. Pretty soon, we have a full scale Andrew Lloyd Weber duet going on in the pasture. I've ordered some half-face masks for them both so I can charge the neighbor admission.
The harmony is provided compliments of Bailey, daughter of never-makes-a-peep-quietest-Nubian-ever, Socks. Farm girl thinks Socks might be missing vocal chords - or whatever it is that goats have in lieu of those. Even in the full throws of labor and delivery, Socks didn't make a sound. But Bailey - not so much. Bailey thinks that Farm Girl is her mom, despite the fact that she was never a bottle baby. She feels that Farm Girl should live in the barn and hold her all the time, and so she cries in an attempt to induce guilt. On nice Spring days, it often worked. But it's getting hot now, so the humans prefer to stay in the AC or in the pool. So Bailey sings and sings, and then Belle starts because she's demanding that Bailey shut up. Pretty soon, we have a full scale Andrew Lloyd Weber duet going on in the pasture. I've ordered some half-face masks for them both so I can charge the neighbor admission.
Friday, May 11, 2012
When I had my son, I managed to nurse him for 6 weeks. He wouldn't take me, despite much interference from the Nipple Nazis (lactation consultants). So my life consisted of pump, give a bottle, sleep, repeat...every three hours. It was miserable and hormonal and I hated it.
When I had my daughter, we had the opposite problem. She would ONLY take me, and screamed with rage if I even showed her a bottle. I nursed her until she was 18 months old, at which point my husband and my mother were convinced I would end up on Dr. Phil (or Time Magazine, LOL).
When the goat babies came, they followed in my daughter's footsteps...nipple or nothing. Ok, I guess totally teat is a better alliteration. Especially Shadow...she wants nothing to do with me, any bottle, or any treat I bring to bribe her into bonding with me. To this day I have only touched her once, and that was when I pulled her from her mama's womb. Since then, I am Persona Non Grata. I have no idea how I'm going to trim her hooves, and they are rapidly approaching the need for it. Dart gun, maybe? Her cousin, Bailey, adores me...won't take a bottle, but climbs on me and sucks my fingers every chance she gets. I swear, she handed me her hooves and waited patiently for her manicure like she was royalty or something.
Maybe Shadow is angry at me on behalf of her mom, Tiny. Tiny just recently learned that the milk stand is NOT her enemy. When she's up there, she doesn't have to fight for her share of the grain, and that very uncomfortable pressure by her right leg - you know, the pressure that comes when the babies decide that only ONE teat is worth sucking on - gets relieved. But in spite of this, it took her MONTHS to catch on and stop pulling and stomping and generally throwing a hissy fit. But yesterday I made the mistake of wearing my watch while milking... my watch with links that sometimes catch my arm hairs and yank them out. Well, I guess they also catch udder hairs. I guess that probably hurts a little more than pulling arm hairs. And now we are back to square one. When I called her to come up on the milk stand this morning, she looked at me like I was smoking crack, and I swear she said, "Touch my boob again, b___, and I will head butt you from here to Tuesday." Who knew goats could hold such a grudge? (Who knew goats could talk?). Anyway, now Tiny AND Shadow think I'm the devil incarnate.
This week's lesson - milking is a no-jewelry-allowed activity. But one can hardly blame me...with my city girl background, I've never heard of anything that didn't involve jewelry.
The picture is Shadow (black) and Bailey (brown):
When I had my daughter, we had the opposite problem. She would ONLY take me, and screamed with rage if I even showed her a bottle. I nursed her until she was 18 months old, at which point my husband and my mother were convinced I would end up on Dr. Phil (or Time Magazine, LOL).
When the goat babies came, they followed in my daughter's footsteps...nipple or nothing. Ok, I guess totally teat is a better alliteration. Especially Shadow...she wants nothing to do with me, any bottle, or any treat I bring to bribe her into bonding with me. To this day I have only touched her once, and that was when I pulled her from her mama's womb. Since then, I am Persona Non Grata. I have no idea how I'm going to trim her hooves, and they are rapidly approaching the need for it. Dart gun, maybe? Her cousin, Bailey, adores me...won't take a bottle, but climbs on me and sucks my fingers every chance she gets. I swear, she handed me her hooves and waited patiently for her manicure like she was royalty or something.
Maybe Shadow is angry at me on behalf of her mom, Tiny. Tiny just recently learned that the milk stand is NOT her enemy. When she's up there, she doesn't have to fight for her share of the grain, and that very uncomfortable pressure by her right leg - you know, the pressure that comes when the babies decide that only ONE teat is worth sucking on - gets relieved. But in spite of this, it took her MONTHS to catch on and stop pulling and stomping and generally throwing a hissy fit. But yesterday I made the mistake of wearing my watch while milking... my watch with links that sometimes catch my arm hairs and yank them out. Well, I guess they also catch udder hairs. I guess that probably hurts a little more than pulling arm hairs. And now we are back to square one. When I called her to come up on the milk stand this morning, she looked at me like I was smoking crack, and I swear she said, "Touch my boob again, b___, and I will head butt you from here to Tuesday." Who knew goats could hold such a grudge? (Who knew goats could talk?). Anyway, now Tiny AND Shadow think I'm the devil incarnate.
This week's lesson - milking is a no-jewelry-allowed activity. But one can hardly blame me...with my city girl background, I've never heard of anything that didn't involve jewelry.
The picture is Shadow (black) and Bailey (brown):
Thursday, April 12, 2012
And God said, "Wrong Way, Dumb-Ass...Turn Around!"
Yeah...I don't know about this blogging thing. I'm not sure I really have time to chronicle this journey, because I'm awfully busy just trying to survive it. But enough people hassle me on Facebook, that I'm going to do a test drive. We'll see if I have what it takes. We'll start with the back story...
* * * * *
I did not grow up on a farm, and neither did my parents. You have to go back three generations to get to the farm - one family branch in western Kentucky, and one in southeast Arkansas - but hillbilly redneck in both directions. I grew up in a wealthy suburb of a mid-sized city, born to upper-middle class parents. I went to a private middle school, a "rich" high school, and attended the "rich" Episcopal church downtown. I went to a large university in the South and joined a sorority. I met my husband there, got married, and we eventually moved to the Mecca of Texas High Society, Dallas.
There we were, in our big house with a pool, pretending to be the perfect family with two perfect kids, and me a perfect stay-at-home wife who cooked gourmet meals every night. But the redneck blood was still in there... just waiting to boil to the surface. Three generations just wasn't enough to dilute it. First of all, I am a CRAPPY stay-at-home wife. I can't cook, and I can't clean, and I sure wasn't happy pretending that I could. I'm pretty sure I had the neighborhood ladies and my PTA friends fooled, but my husband and kids knew the truth. That was the first domino to fall.
Then we left the "rich" church to go to a "real" church. That's where I started to see the lie for what it was. That's where I started to realize this wasn't the way I wanted to raise my kids. You can only play "keep up with the Jones" for so long without loosing your sanity and your SELF, not to mention your sense of proper priorities. My marriage was in trouble, my kids were in trouble, and I was dangerously depressed. Changing churches and improving my relationship with Jesus was a start, but He wanted more. The rest of the dominoes fell that horrible year.
So we sold the mansion and moved to the country. Not so far out that my husband couldn't commute to work in town, but far enough to buy 3 acres with no homeowner's association to tell us what to do with it. We built a smaller house, and started on this new, calmer way of life. This time, I'm not building with dominoes. Those suckers just aren't stable enough.
After taking a year to get settled and adjusted, and to fence the pastures, we started getting animals. The first grade class at the school was studying the life cycle of an egg, and gave me the live chicks at the end of the unit. That's when I learned how much I hate roosters. As soon as they were old enough, six chickens became three hens. Mark built a coop, and two months later we were having to eat eggs twice a week just to make room in the fridge. That's when I learned that out here, conversations with neighbors don't involve trying to one-up each other. They give advice, and I pay in eggs.
The next year, I bought 4 baby Nubian dairy goats - Jasmine, Tiny, Socks, and Belle. I bottle fed them... because I had no idea just how hard it is to bottle feed four babies with only two hands, and I was too tired to have the sense to look at caprine supply catalogs for another way (now I know - one bucket, many nipples). I also learned that my children's old toddler coats work really great on shivering baby goats when it gets below 10 degrees. You just cut the arms off. Speaking of arms...mine looked pretty good that winter from hauling buckets of hot water out to the goat shed. Now I know to build the barn closer to the house when we get ready to up-size to an actual barn.
In the fall, I "rented" a buck for my girls, and that stud managed to get everybody pregnant in just 30 days. Sadly, Jasmine's break away collar didn't break away when she got hung on the fence. I found her that morning and had to deal with 120 lb carcass myself, since Mark was overseas on a business trip. Did you know there is only 6 inches of top soil in some parts of North Texas? Poor Jasmine had to be hauled away in a trash bag.
Fast forward to spring, and the other three had babies. Those wacky delivery stories will have to wait for my next entry. Right now, it's time to milk the goats.
* * * * *
I did not grow up on a farm, and neither did my parents. You have to go back three generations to get to the farm - one family branch in western Kentucky, and one in southeast Arkansas - but hillbilly redneck in both directions. I grew up in a wealthy suburb of a mid-sized city, born to upper-middle class parents. I went to a private middle school, a "rich" high school, and attended the "rich" Episcopal church downtown. I went to a large university in the South and joined a sorority. I met my husband there, got married, and we eventually moved to the Mecca of Texas High Society, Dallas.
There we were, in our big house with a pool, pretending to be the perfect family with two perfect kids, and me a perfect stay-at-home wife who cooked gourmet meals every night. But the redneck blood was still in there... just waiting to boil to the surface. Three generations just wasn't enough to dilute it. First of all, I am a CRAPPY stay-at-home wife. I can't cook, and I can't clean, and I sure wasn't happy pretending that I could. I'm pretty sure I had the neighborhood ladies and my PTA friends fooled, but my husband and kids knew the truth. That was the first domino to fall.
Then we left the "rich" church to go to a "real" church. That's where I started to see the lie for what it was. That's where I started to realize this wasn't the way I wanted to raise my kids. You can only play "keep up with the Jones" for so long without loosing your sanity and your SELF, not to mention your sense of proper priorities. My marriage was in trouble, my kids were in trouble, and I was dangerously depressed. Changing churches and improving my relationship with Jesus was a start, but He wanted more. The rest of the dominoes fell that horrible year.
So we sold the mansion and moved to the country. Not so far out that my husband couldn't commute to work in town, but far enough to buy 3 acres with no homeowner's association to tell us what to do with it. We built a smaller house, and started on this new, calmer way of life. This time, I'm not building with dominoes. Those suckers just aren't stable enough.
After taking a year to get settled and adjusted, and to fence the pastures, we started getting animals. The first grade class at the school was studying the life cycle of an egg, and gave me the live chicks at the end of the unit. That's when I learned how much I hate roosters. As soon as they were old enough, six chickens became three hens. Mark built a coop, and two months later we were having to eat eggs twice a week just to make room in the fridge. That's when I learned that out here, conversations with neighbors don't involve trying to one-up each other. They give advice, and I pay in eggs.
The next year, I bought 4 baby Nubian dairy goats - Jasmine, Tiny, Socks, and Belle. I bottle fed them... because I had no idea just how hard it is to bottle feed four babies with only two hands, and I was too tired to have the sense to look at caprine supply catalogs for another way (now I know - one bucket, many nipples). I also learned that my children's old toddler coats work really great on shivering baby goats when it gets below 10 degrees. You just cut the arms off. Speaking of arms...mine looked pretty good that winter from hauling buckets of hot water out to the goat shed. Now I know to build the barn closer to the house when we get ready to up-size to an actual barn.
In the fall, I "rented" a buck for my girls, and that stud managed to get everybody pregnant in just 30 days. Sadly, Jasmine's break away collar didn't break away when she got hung on the fence. I found her that morning and had to deal with 120 lb carcass myself, since Mark was overseas on a business trip. Did you know there is only 6 inches of top soil in some parts of North Texas? Poor Jasmine had to be hauled away in a trash bag.
Fast forward to spring, and the other three had babies. Those wacky delivery stories will have to wait for my next entry. Right now, it's time to milk the goats.
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