Squishy Egg

This morning, one of our Rhode Island girls laid a soft-shelled or “squishy” egg. This is a fairly common occurrence, especially in newly laying pullets, or can sometimes indicate a calcium deficiency in a hen. So I thought I would take a minute and cover egg issues for those who have yet to have the joy of reaching into a nest box and shrieking like a teenaged girl when your fingers touch something, well, gross.
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Squishy eggs: Often a new layer issue but can be indicative in an older hen of a calcium deficiency, or something lacking in the diet. Our particular completely squishy egg had no white, only yolk. No chance of hatch, and I’ve personally never attempted eating one for fear that bacteria could have made it through the membrane.

The next day a second, half squishy egg was laid by likely the same hen. The portion of the shell that was complete was so thin you can see in the photo where my finger went through it, simply by picking it up. This one was all white. No yolk.

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Wrinkled eggs : These can happen when a growing pullet is just starting to lay, or if there’s been some upset or interruption during the egg forming process…the egg can come out with little ridges, usually only at one end. Perfectly safe to eat, and we’ve had them hatch in the incubator as well.d117c0d2_22466_100_5470.jpeg

Under / oversized eggs: Under sized eggs can be from the size of a marble on up…again, usuall newly laying chickens, or sometimes an aging hen. They can be perfectly normal inside, all yolk and no albumen (white), or the reverse, no yolk with all albumen…these are sometimes referred to as wind eggs, fairy eggs or fart eggs.  The over sized variety will often contain a double yolk, and very rarely, an egg inside another egg. You can safely consume all of the above, should you desire to. However, undersize eggs will almost never hatch, because they only contain albumen or yolk, rarely if ever both.  Hatching double yolkers “twins” can be done, but is very rarely successful.

Wind eggs: see above…an egg with no yolk. Never tried eating one, but they definitely will not hatch.

Blood Spots: Little blood spot in your breakfast egg? No worries. Lots of people think this is the indicator of a fertilized egg. It’s not. It’s the result of a tiny rupture in a blood vessel in the oviduct of the hen during the formation of the egg. Scrape it off gently with a knife if it grosses you out, carry on with breakfast as usual.

Lash Eggs: Ok, these are just gross and usually very bad news. Not for anyone with a weak stomach, you can read a fantastic article on them Here: Lash Eggs explained. If you find an egg shaped mass with layers of icky, squishy content, this is probably your suspect. Generally caused by a disease called salpingitis. Prognosis for a hen with this condition is poor at best.

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Ashy Eggs: These are eggs that are laid with a chalky or ashy appearance, like a film of sorts over the usual color of the egg. Not a big deal and I’ve both eaten and hatched them.

There are all sorts of abnormalities that can occur during the formation of an egg during its travels through the oviduct of a hen. Most of them shouldn’t alarm you, but lash eggs or a hen that continually produces abnormal eggs should be cause for immediate quarantine or culling, and a vet consulted if the hen is a pet.

~Lisa

 

 

Zealotry and Zen

I find zealotry in all its forms completely distasteful. There is no faster way to completely dissuade me from a point of view than to try and ram it down my throat. This is on my mind this morning because I’m having a bit of a dilemma.  I respect a person having courage of conviction, and I pride myself on being a somewhat informed and educated person. I welcome new learning experiences of all sorts, and dissenting viewpoints. However, at the end of the day, it’s my right to decide whether I agree or disagree, and once I’ve done that, continued argument isn’t likely to do anything but push me farther from your school of thought.

Having said that, it’s important to qualify that we’re not “churchy” people…but we are “faith” people.  I had so much church foisted on me by two warring factions as a child, I vowed solemnly not to do that to my own children.  I have a wonderful relationship with the God of my own understanding. He may or may not be similar to yours, and frankly, I don’t care. I talk to him, he answers me in his own time and way, and my attendance in a house of worship of any denomination isn’t a requirement for that relationship. And that is all I have to say about that. Because I believe it should be a personal matter, and advertising your affiliation with or status within any religion, house of religion, or organization doesn’t make you any better at being a decent human than anyone else, myself included.  SO back to my dilemma.

My eight year old is a Cub Scout. He enjoys it, it’s a positive thing in his life, we enjoy the family based activities. As long as that continues to be the case, we’ll continue to be a part of the Scouts program.

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This week, Ryan is the “Star Student” in his classroom. This affords the classroom monarch a few privileges, one of which is to share something with his class that he enjoys. A toy, book, photographs, etc. With zero direction from either us or the Scouts, Ryan went to his teacher and asked if he could wear his scout uniform instead of his school uniform today, and share about some of the cool things he’s done in Scouts. She’s consented.

So I’m currently finishing up laundering said uniform, but I’m doing so with more than a few misgivings. You see, enrollment in Scouts programs is down. A lot. Some because of unfortunate events in the news in past years, but a good portion of it can be attributed to the fact that the Scouts aren’t allowed in most schools anymore. While there used to be a Scouts signup table at every school open house, winter carnival, etc…they’re now conspicuously absent.

You see, the Scouts, even though it’s a non-denominational organization, has some God going on. God’s in the book, the Scout Oath, and “Scout Sunday” involves attending your sponsoring or local church one Sunday per calendar year. (Completely optional)  It’s not a church program, it’s a community program. Boys and their families are welcome to take part in the program with any or no religious affiliation.

So, of course…there’s someone, somewhere, everywhere… who has decided to make noise about that.  One parental meltdown is all it takes for Scouting to be unwelcome at a school. One parent who feels that the mere mention or presence of a program that even makes mention of God is an effort to “indoctrinate” their child, separation of church and state, blah, blah, blah.

It’s absurdly funny to me that the most adamant of these objectors are most often the people who are so gung-ho about tolerance for and about protecting everyone’s right to their own feelings and beliefs. They tend to be more intolerant than anyone I’ve ever seen. The right to one’s own feelings and beliefs only applies for them when it doesn’t conflict with their own agenda. Am I the only one who sees this as complete hypocrisy?

I take serious issue with that. One of the most beautiful principles this country was founded on was Freedom. Freedom to think, speak, believe, worship, not worship, vote, object or abstain AS WE PLEASE in all matters. Blessed autonomy. So why do we now suddenly expect schools, workplaces, public places to police and insulate us completely from the beliefs or ideas of others? What happened to the right to and common sense to just be secure enough in your own convictions to respectfully tolerate those of others? To just BE, and let everyone else BE…

This is how I’ve tried to raise my kids. To know that…Not everyone is like you. And that’s ok. It’s their right to be different just as much as it’s yours. It’s for you to decide what you believe in and how you want to carry yourself as a person. 10710712_953048228055375_7582096015899745441_n.jpg

So, I’m sending my kid to school today in his Scouts uniform. With the dread that I’ll get a phone call later. That my little boy will be confused and hurt and not understand what is possibly threatening or objectionable about a program that he has fun in, that teaches him to be a good person, a responsible citizen, and a good steward of the environment. That he will come home feeling there’s something bad or wrong about being a Scout. That my son’s teacher will be called away from her class for a stern talking to, and that I’ll get a phone call citing the School dress code and uniform policy and have to take my child a proper plain polo shirt. I’m steeling myself for that, because I’m not quite sure how gracefully I’ll handle it. Tact and vocal filtering really aren’t my strong suit. Especially where my wee ones are involved.

I miss America. I don’t know when we became a land so hyper focused on insulating everyone else’s little baby feelings that we became afraid to have our own. There’s something that feels inherently wrong with that. I really miss America.

 

 

 

 

 

Gunfight at the P-town Corral

You know, my kids make fun of me sometimes when I say the world’s gone nuts. Or that I’m going to buy a mountain, put a big fence around it, and take my entire family to live behind that fence.

I have one grown child whose family lives in the city. Not Chicago or NYC, but one of those areas that’s a wannabe metropolis. Seven of them. The entire area is referred to as “the Seven Cities”. My only daughter and her husband, and four of my granddaughters still live there. In the hood. And when I say it’s the hood, I mean I have personally sat on their porch on a summer evening and listened to popping noises and said “Who’s setting off fireworks?” Only it wasn’t fireworks, it was gunfire. Police sirens and ambulances round out the nightly symphony.

My son-in-law is a huge hulking fella. Rather imposing, so I worry a little less about their safety than my own Mother probably did about mine when I had to take my children and go try on city life and bought a home in East Baltimore. (Ok, I worry a lot less, because she went out and bought us all burial plots at that turn of events, God rest her soul.)

I don’t care how big you are, or how smart…and they’re pretty sharp, the pair of them (and fantastic parents)… you cannot stop a bullet. You can’t stop violence from touching your kids, and planting yourself in the middle of an urban area likely to be a war zone for a bunch of little turf hungry hood rats that fancy themselves “gangstas”  doesn’t do much for your odds or your sense of peace. Or your mother’s.

Last night, right at the edge of dark, my daughter was forced to run upstairs with the girls. There was shooting in their neighborhood. Close. Too close. The young men who were being shot at jumped over their backyard fence and the next door neighbor’s. My son in law spent the next hour helping the police department round up the bullet casings. In their own front yard. Bullet casings. Where my grandbabies run barefoot all summer. Where they are lucky they were not hanging out, as they often do, on such a beautiful evening.

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I wish my tendency for hyperbole was at work here. It’s not.

Bullets. Whizzing within literal inches of where six of the things most precious to me in this world lay their heads and eat dinner. Thankfully, no rounds hit the house. Or anything with a heartbeat, including the fence jumping young men, who, of course claimed they had no idea who was shooting at them. Or why…after the police rounded them up from behind my daughter’s home where they took cover.

The kids were already flirting with the notion a move up this way. Closer to family, not in the city. The hardest thing about being a parent of a grown child is remembering you’re not in charge anymore. On the phone with mine last night, it was all I could do not to demand they pack their stuff, this instant, and come the hell home. To hell with your family autonomy, do what I say and right freaking now, because I don’t want to bury any of you.  Get your collective rear ends back to where if you hear gunfire, it’s someone putting meat in the freezer, not someone’s child in a box. I want to put my foot down. This is enough. No job, no city paycheck is worth this.

But I can’t. They’re adults. I have to respect their decisions as a family, and right now that means living where they are.

I didn’t sleep much last night. I doubt they did either. Your children may grow up…but they never stop being your babies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday Funnies – of Men and Maggots

I’ve been thinking of things I wanted to do with our blog here, and I’ve decided that on some Fridays I’m going to dedicate a post to some of our absolutely most hysterical moments over the last few years. It’s not always been an easy ride, we’ve had plenty of highs and lows to be sure. We’ve done our share of the toil and tears, but what keeps us going is the times when things just take such a completely absurd detour that someone begins to laugh, and it’s contagious, and the next thing you know everyone is in total stitches. It’s a learning process, and sometimes not just for us. We have also made a LOT of mistakes…which usually end up in comedic fashion.

So we buy bottle calves. The bull calves that are culled by the dairy farms, sometimes within hours of birth and sent off to auction. This can be a dicey proposition. You really have to dig in and fight them, some simply do not want to live. If we’re lucky enough to see them through the initial rough patch, it can be a really rewarding feeling. We band them, raise them to feeder weight, and usually sell them to a farmstead or family that wants to raise a beef steer. 227723_219693134724225_4411804_n.jpg

We’ve bought anywhere from one to as many as a dozen at a time. If you’re feeding one bawling beefy beast a bottle 4 times a day, it’s just as easy to feed multiple ones. However, they usually come with what’s called “scours”. I don’t know how they came up with that name, other than it’s what you feel you have to do to your clothing and any exposed skin after handling a calf with scours. Scours, if you don’t know…well, do yourself a favor and don’t google it, ok?  230397_219692698057602_4699897_n.jpg

I’ll put it this way. Scours causes everything in every single one of a calf’s four stomachs to be ejected violently, at high speed, and in any one of a dozen colors from a calf’s rear end. As fast as you put in the other end. Messy, smelly and inconvenient in the cold weather months. In the summer, you have the added nightmare of insects.

It’s a simple concept, really. Poop stinks. Calves do not use Charmin. Flies are attracted to stinky things. Like poopy calf rumps. Mother flies apparently are prone to thinking this is a spectacular place for an insect obstetrics unit, and Shazam! Next thing you know…well…you’re in a position like we were a couple of summers ago.

To understand why we might find this amusing, you must first understand that my other half’s Dad is a very particular man. Everything about him is usually immaculate. His sleek burgundy luxury sedan pulls up in the driveway, and out climbs a very well put together gentleman wearing lovely slacks, dress shirts, and beautiful shiny loafers. He is usually singularly focused, moving at a surprisingly good clip in search of his son to discuss whatever’s brought him to the driveway. He’s very gentlemanly and polite to a fault.

This day was no exception…like a senior citizen shaped missile he fast tracked to the barn and made a beeline for us. It’s June. It’s 100 degrees in the shade, we’re standing by the barn door with 50 foot of hose and a brush. Clad in sweaty muck boots and elbow length playtex gloves, with an arsenal of potions and sprays and a wet, reeking, supremely pissed off  holstein bull calf bawling loudly on a lead line.

Since the business end of the operation was pointing out the back barn door, I really don’t think he had any warning what exactly he was walking into. He knows from experience to walk carefully in the barn, I think he was paying such close attention to his travel path maybe he didn’t add it all up. Or focused solely on his objective. He stopped about 5 feet from us.

“Helllloooo! How’s everybody doing today? T, I was thinking about something and I figured I would stop and run it by you.”

“Ok, Dad…well, we’re a little tied up here just at the moment…Can you give me a few minutes?”

So, at this point, we’re dripping sweat by the bucketful, this is like the third calf in an hour, bath time is NOT a hit with our baby bulls at all. They don’t want to be wet, they want milk. You’re at the wrong end. It’s a wrestling match of epic proportions and you’re trying to avoid being coated in liquefied calf crap. And maggots.

As he watched, his nose began to wrinkle a little. He took a step back.

“So, uhhh…what are you doing there, Lisa? Washing them up?”

Eyes down. Boy, this is awkward. I’ve never had someone watch me de-maggotize a calf with severe swamp ass before. Does he not see the river of churning fly babies floating out the door? Tony and I were looking at each other and trying to decide whether to be stupidly uncomfortable, and trying so very hard not to burst into tears or laughter or a ridiculous combination of the two. This is just not a good time. We’re struggling and wrestling and washing and chasing calf rump.

“Yessir…they have been a little sick, needed a bath.”

And then it happened. Politeness took over and he did it. The well dressed gentleman standing a few feet away from the most grotesque scene ever and apparently still oblivious to the reality of the task at hand said “Do you all need some help? Anything I can do?”

It was at this point time stopped. We stopped. Everything stopped. The calf stopped fighting. Even he seemed flabbergasted. And he stopped with the overpopulated tail end toward our would-be helper.

His eyes widened. His nostrils flared a little. His face began to turn a peculiar shade and you could tell the horrific reality of what he’s just volunteered for has now struck him. I looked at Tony. I looked at his Dad’s cream colored slacks and shiny loafers and tried hard to stop the laughter bubbling up.

“Uh, no, Dad…I think we’re good here. I don’t think this is something you want to get into today.”

“Oh, my. Uh…yes, you’re probably right. You know, you all look a little busy. Maybe I’ll stop back later, or call, or something….”

His voice trailed off and he turned around to flee the scene. He called a goodbye over his shoulder and made a hasty retreat. T and I are looking at each other and realizing just how incredibly, horrifically ridiculous we looked, we’re a total hot mess.

I couldn’t help myself. “I love your Dad, but I gotta say, for just a minute, I wanted to hand him a pair of gloves.” I giggled…I couldn’t help it anymore. Tony’s face completely cracked and we both just lost it. We’re filthy and we smell and we look totally absurd and there are rivers of crap and maggots everywhere. And we’re laughing so hard we’re literally crying.

His Dad’s a lot more careful about volunteering now.

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Beauty is in the eye of the determined.

10485366_1187124057981123_2848459601193225218_nA photo I took over our pasture this fall.

Sometimes it’s easy for me to find beauty. Sometimes it seems overwhelmingly, ridiculously impossible. We’re surrounded daily by so much ugliness and evil and hatred and contention on a daily basis that it becomes the norm. Immersed in it. Drowning in a media borne sea of 50 foot waves of awfulness and despair, clinging to nothing but a photo or memory of a baby or a sunset for hope of survival.    Don’t believe me? Watch the newscast. Scroll through your local news station’s Facebook feed. Just for the sake of this exercise, grab a piece of scratch paper and a pen. Make two columns. One for positive, hopeful or uplifting, and one for “stuff that angers, horrifies, scares, nauseates, saddens, or in generally makes me feel like crap.” Go ahead, I’ll wait. Here’s mine. For the first 46 items on my local news station’s feed. (Discounting sports articles)20160227_191635 (1).jpg

 

43 to 3.  Really? See my conveniently labeled columns entitled “Crap” and “Yay!” (I’m a simple gal.) Forty flipping three craptastic articles featuring (in no particular order at all) murder, mayhem, car crashes, rape, ridiculousness,  bomb threats, fires, abuse, arson, assault, suicide, burglary, drug use, overdoses, death, destruction, natural disasters, embezzlement, and dissent. One puff piece about a local teacher of the year, one about the future of Punkin Chunkin that really could go either way (but my right column was lonely), and one about the upcoming local fishing season. I skipped over sports articles.

It even surprised me, actually. I’ve literally stopped watching the news for this very reason.  I’ve made jokes for years to my family that if I ever hit the lottery, I was going to buy a mountain, encircle it with an electrified razor wire topped ten foot fence and cloister my entire family there, and any other sane friends who would like to come along. A place to secede from the world’s ever growing insanity. It’s only half a joke. Like this right here.

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Or maybe a “tiny house” village. Like this one, only located on said imaginary mountain.

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But until then, I just have to boycott the network news media, (because it’s all bad, all the time) and continue my daily search for what’s good and lovely and uplifting in the world. I don’t think of it as willful ignorance, I think of it as sanity preservation.

I still have to send my remaining minor child off to school every day without lurking fear based imagining of an elementary school bathroom heroin overdose or a psycho school shooter.  And without using any sort of “happy pills” because I’m in recovery and my program and my sponsor both tell me that’s to be avoided.

So for now…these are my ” happy pills.” Here are some photos over the years that we’ve taken. These are some of our happiest moments. The most beautiful ones. Where the world is not a cesspool of crazy, and we’re consciously looking for and finding the beauty. Because beauty is in the eye of the determined, not the beholder. Some things are just ugly, and you can’t make them feel any different.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Planting TIME.

My honey came stumbling down the hallway a few minutes ago. Bleary eyed, pajama clad, and very, very confused. The dining room table, though rarely used for actual DINING, is covered this morning in seed packets, starting trays, a gallon sized pitcher of potting soil and the skeletonized remains of a battalion of plastic containers rescued from the recycle bin.
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“What the hell are you doing?”

“Good morning to you, too,  dear. I’m planting things. Want coffee?”

“Coffee? Erm…no. It’s 3:30 in the morning. I want sleep. What are you planting? Besides insomnia?”

He doesn’t really wait for an answer, just lights the propane heater for me, then shuffles a retreat back to the bed, grumbling to no one in particular. Because he knows. He gets me.

He knows I’m not going back to bed. These are generally the day’s most productive hours for me. It’s quiet. Even the chicks in the brooder bin in the floor behind me aren’t stupid enough to be up at this hour. My son is asleep, the inevitably oncoming day’s dose of crazy hasn’t begun yet. It’s just me, my coffee, and my project-of-the-moment. The phone won’t ring, no one is yet bellowing for reinforcements in the endless search for stray belongings, the weeks homework, or sounding the ever popular where-are-all-my-underwear battle cry.

Everybody in the house is still the picture of sleepy sweetness. I can’t NOT love them all right now. Oh, don’t get me wrong…I love them all. All the time. But…Eventually, they’ll wake up. And then they begin to speak. It’s the speaking that does it. It’s always what comes out of the faceholes that is the straw that sends me over the edge. Sometimes, this results in a temporary inability to like them much. Or for them to like me. You see, today brings the weekend.

I like weekends. Really. I like it when my family is home and we do the things and spend the time and be the normal. And sometimes, the weekends bring the guilt. Maybe you know the feeling…you know the one. The “Oh MY LORD, if you ask me one more question, expect me to entertain you one more second of this day, test me to the limits of my patience for all this damned togetherness one more instant – Jeez, is it Monday yet so you people can go back to work and school and stuff other than irritating the ever loving crap out of me….I. AM. FLIPPING. BUSY! forcryingoutloud” feeling? Because the weekend is the rush for me. Not the “work week”.  It’s a triathlon racing between the things I know I must get done, and the things I know they (and I) WANT to do.

So I guess the short answer to T’s question this morning is, I’m planting time. And patience. Planting my own sanity.  I’m crossing one of the big things on my to-do list that will rent space in my head when they want my time and company and undivided attention. I’m planting the ability to focus. Even if it’s on cuddling with a small manchild (or a big one) in fuzzy socks and giggling over some Netflix nonsense and popcorn. That’s what I’m planting. The veggies and flowers are a by-product.

Good morning everyone! And Happy Weekend!

Normal is Just a Setting on the Dryer.

12745434_1253932904633571_6178377214742722833_nThis is my 8 year old’s normal.

It’s probably not your normal. That’s ok. It’s certainly NOT a perfect photograph, but it is a perfectly accurate snapshot of our life and the stuff in it that brings me joy. Here’s what I love about this photo.

1. There is not a single electronic device present. This isn’t to say that Ry doesn’t enjoy access to computers and tablets and gaming systems. He does. (Which some days result in EPIC battles of wills.) You’ll notice there are none here.

2. That impish little grin is a completely genuine one. No faking it for the camera…just pure uncontainable, “I’m not too cool for this” joy. I hope he never outgrows not being too cool, but the realist in me is painfully aware of the possibility that these days may be numbered. I’ll take them while I can get them.

Here are the things you may not see.

That after working all day, at 7:30 p.m., my honey drove nearly an hour away (Still finishing up work calls on his earpiece the entire time) to pick up a bottle lamb and back and didn’t complain.  Literally, pulled in the drive, sucked down a only marginally decent cup of coffee and loaded right back up to leave again. We were both so over the day that we elected to not clear the tools out of the truck to make room for a crate (they will just have to be put back tomorrow anyway) so that lamb rode 48 miles on my lap. That my kid had gas station convenience store deli fried chicken for dinner without a vegetable in sight and didn’t get to bed until well after 10. On a school night.

You also don’t see that he did three days worth of homework without complaint or battle pre-embarking on our mission because Monday’s never gets done on Monday (Cub Scouts) and Wednesday’s doesn’t get done on Wednesday if it’s an auction week, and it is. So it’s a Tuesday triple, which happens more often than I should probably admit to.

That pink topped Playtex bottle you see there has been so well used, it’s  nearly lost it’s pre-printed design and seen countless orphan goat kids and lambs AND three dishwashers come and go. (And the occasional human grandchild, don’t judge me, the aforementioned dishwashers have a sterilize setting) The man-child holding it may pretend to be incapable of independently constructing his own chocolate milk, but he can rattle off a recipe from memory for homemade milk replacer like nobody’s business.

You don’t see the 10 miles of giggles after I was presented with figuring out if that was lamb “happy tail” or pelletized poo striking the leg of my jeans…(poo, of course). Or the 20 miles of uncontrollable laughter from everyone after our wooly charge expertly unleashed a stream of something warm and wet that ran directly down the leg of my jeans and into my shoe. (Because nothing is EVER funnier than Mom getting peed on. Except Crap, and that was a done deal already)

You don’t see him staying up to make sure the new baby is comfortably settled in the mud room, pulling and hauling on stuff way too heavy for his tiny body, all the while extracting promises that only he gets to do the morning feeding.

You don’t see him counting the contents of his piggy bank before bed in preparation for Wednesday’s auction because he knows that sheep and goats are herd animals and he fears his new charge might be lonely, and it’s no more work but more profit to raise multiples. And you have never seen him raise a bidder number at that auction (and get taken seriously, the auctioneers all know him by name and that he means business) then plunk down his very own money for something he needs or wants, with no wires, bells, whistles or graphics but instead, something with yet another chore attached.

Or that he knows it’s ok to name this one, because as an intact male, he won’t be gracing our dinner table, but not to get attached because when he reaches an age that bowling for children becomes a sheep sport, he’ll be off to auction.

And most importantly, what you really don’t see is my terror that life like this is vanishing. Someday, (in some places even now) this is not ok…that someone has decided it’s not normal, or even legal. Sobering thought, isn’t it?

Well, until that day comes…and if it ever does in my lifetime it will be met with kicking and screaming of epic proportions, this IS our normal. There’s a loose baby lamb in my truck. My kid didn’t eat a balanced meal, is out way past bedtime on a school night, and there’s animal crap in my pant cuffs and urine in my shoe. Child labor is alive and well here, but it’s not forced, it’s called work ethic and I’m grateful my kid is learning some.  Our family vehicle smells like lamb ass, and there’s livestock living in the entry to our home. And we’re all smiling.

Normal is just a setting on the dryer around here. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

*** For reference purposes, I’m attaching a link to another blog where I originally found a recipe for homemade milk replacer for lambs. We have been using it ever since, I have not bought a bag of commercial type since finding this recipe, and have not lost a single lamb. So it’s worked famously for us. 

Thank you, Collie Farm!