Genevieve's Maternity Leave

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.