Genevieve, one of
our high-maintenance Nubian does (I say that with love and eye bags),
has been very pregnant for what feels like the last twelve years.
According to the calendar, she was due any day. According to her
behavior—dramatic sighing, shifting around like she couldn't get
comfortable in her own skin, and throwing side-eye at anyone who
asked how she was feeling—she was due yesterday, last week, and
also somehow last month.
So I started the
drill. For the last two days and nights, I’ve been checking on her
every two hours. Yes, even at night. Yes, even when it was 10 degrees
and the wind was coming in sideways. I have personally gone out to
the barn in a bathrobe, parka, snow boots, and a headlamp, looking
like a cross between a prospector and a half-deflated lawn Santa.
Now, I didn't plan
babies due in cold weather. But apparently Genevieve couldn't wait
for her date with a guy about 5 months ago. I tried to warn her, but,
like hormonal teenagers, when do they listen? I found her in the
buck's pen one morning, and marked my calendar.
By last night, I
looked at Genevieve and said, “Look,
girl, either have those babies or tell me if I need to cancel my
plans for the rest of the decade.” She
gave me a blank stare and shifted her weight like she was rearranging
furniture in there.
Well, turns out she
finally took the hint—because after being in labor all
night (complete with drama, heavy breathing, and one suspiciously
long side-eye), she delivered: twin
boys.
One at a solid 8 lbs., the other just a hair under 7, both healthy,
hollering, and already bouncing off the walls.
Genevieve is fine.
Smug, even. She stood there afterward like, “That wasn’t so bad,”
while I looked like I just came out the wrong end of a goat tornado.
I think she was holding out just to see how long I could function on
no sleep and cold showers.
The babies were
adorable, of course. Wobbly legs, floppy ears, and that wide-eyed,
slightly confused look like they were still deciding if gravity was a
good idea. One of them had ears so long we named him Dumbo. They
nursed well, made those tiny sneezes that melt your heart—and then
pooped on my sock. Reality re-established.
Now, since Genevieve
is a dairy goat, we had to decide: do we take the kids and
bottle-feed them while milking her ourselves, or let her raise them
and just borrow a little milk for us?
I’ll tell you what
I told the sky that night: “I
have raised kids. Human ones. I am not doing goat daycare.” That’s
not goat farming. That’s babysitting with extra laundry.
So, we let her keep
them.
For 18 hours.
Because that’s how
long it took for Genevieve to discover the dark truth: babies are
loud, demanding, messy, and very, very
clingy.
They’re either starving, snuggling, or springing around like
caffeinated popcorn kernels in a hot skillet. No breaks. No
boundaries. No bathroom privacy.
By the second
morning, Genevieve had had enough. She marched up to the gate, locked
eyes with me, and said—without a sound but very clearly—“You.
With the thumbs. I’m done.”
And that was that.
She’s now back in
the barn with her adult goat friends, acting like she just got back
from a spa retreat. If she could’ve slammed a door behind her, she
would’ve. I think she’s humming. She refuses to acknowledge she
ever had children. It’s like watching a college student delete
photos of their ex.
Meanwhile, I
now have two tiny squatters living in Roxy’s dog crate in the
house, which they’ve turned into a goat AirBnB. They’re tucked
in, warm, and sleeping like they paid rent.
And Roxy? Equal
parts fascinated and insulted. She keeps checking on them like a
worried big sister, then pouting when they won’t play chase or let
her curl up in the crate with them. I told her no hooves, no crate
privileges. She’s currently sulking and muttering something about
unfair housing practices.
So there you have
it: Two baby goats. One displaced dog. One smug goat who’s
pretending she’s single and child-free. And me, the accidental
babysitter with hay in her bra and goat milk warming on the stove.
Good night from the
madhouse. Wake me when they’re weaned.
s,
I know
the barn is a mess. But in our defense, the kids—both
kinds—were in the workshop area, which also doubles as storage for
tools, buckets, extension cords, tractor parts, chicken feeders, and
approximately eleven different types of twine that we
might need someday.
So before anyone gets judgy, just squint a little and focus on the
cuteness, not the clutter in the background, or the smells.
