I'm SO Proud of Myself!

Yes, I’m proud of myself.

“Why?” you ask. Well, I’m glad you asked that question. Pull up a hay bale and let me tell you about this year’s lambing season, now officially in the books.

We’re done lambing—done! As in, all our pregnant ewes are no longer pregnant, and I’m sleeping through the night again (well, mostly). We had six ewes lamb this spring, three of which gave us twins. That’s nine spring lambs, plus the one born last November—ten lambs total ready to head to market in the fall. That’ll cover winter hay, grain, and maybe even a few chocolate bars to keep me going through next lambing season.

Everything went pretty smoothly overall—no breech births, no tangled-up twins trying to come out in a jumbled heap, and all the moms figured out which end of the lamb to lick. Well, almost all.

One first-time mom apparently got her wires crossed. She decided the lamb in the next pen over looked more appealing than the one she'd actually birthed. Classic case of “the lamb is always cuter on the other side of the fence.” So I put up a sheet of plywood between the pens to break the visual confusion and then gently encouraged her to nurse her own lamb by pinning her against a wall until the baby latched on. (Gentle encouragement on a farm often involves more arm strength than you’d use in a yoga class.)

This all went down at 2:00 a.m. and by that point, I was mentally preparing for a bottle baby. But come morning, the ewe had come to her senses and was mothering her own lamb like she’d planned it all along. Whether it was confusion, first-time jitters, or full-blown post-partum barnyard madness, we’ll never know. But she worked it out, and I call that a win.

Then there was the lamb who got scours at just a day old. For the uninitiated, “scours” is a polite farm word for explosive bacterial diarrhea. The smell alone could strip paint. I almost lost the poor little fella, but a round of antibiotics and some electrolytes had him bouncing around by the next day like nothing had happened. I kept up the meds just to be safe—and also to spare myself the trauma of reliving that diaper disaster.

The final lamb born was a bit of a concern too. He was one of a set of twins, and while his brother hit the ground like he had a to-do list, this guy seemed... meh. Just not vigorous. And lambs already look like white, wrinkly old men when they’re born. He just looked extra shriveled. A few days in, he still wasn’t filling out his skin, which meant mama might not have been producing enough milk for both, or maybe the stronger twin was hogging the milk bar.

So, I stepped in with goat’s milk. And just like that, he perked up. Started pushing his brother around and demanding extra helpings. I’m still giving him a little extra on the side just to keep him beefing up, but he’s now living his best lamb life.

But now we get to the real reason I’m proud of myself (you knew we’d get here eventually, didn’t you?).

One of my ewes prolapsed after lambing. And for those of you with delicate constitutions, maybe just stop reading here and go hug a houseplant. For everyone else—a prolapse means that part of her insides decided they wanted to be on the outside. In this case, a vaginal prolapse. Think “barnyard horror movie” meets “do-it-yourself vet care.”

So what did I do? I put on a glove, washed her up, pushed everything back where it belonged (yes, everything), inserted a prolapse retainer (which basically looks like a plastic spoon designed by a medieval torturer), and gave her a shot of long-acting penicillin.

Three days later, I removed the retainer. Next morning? Prolapse again. Wash, rinse, repeat—literally. This time I added stitches to keep things tucked in, gave her another round of antibiotics, and so far so good—she’s holding it together, literally and figuratively.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a vet. I didn’t get to go to vet school, but I’ve apparently picked up enough to do what needs doing when no one else is around and things are falling apart—sometimes literally.

This lambing season gave me my first bottle supplement, my first case of scours, and my first prolapse. And yet... no casualties. No vet bills. Just me, my gloves, and a healthy amount of determination.

So yeah—I’m proud of myself. And tonight, I’m going to bed early.
(Unless someone starts lambing again. Don’t even joke about that.)