Spring lambs: One year later

A few weeks ago, I stood outside in the parking lot of our 4-H meeting talking with our club leader about her new batch of baby lambs. We made the decision not to breed May and Penny this year in an effort to keep things a little simpler (mostly, on me). But sitting there listening to her stories of her babies, a little part of me missed those weeks just over a year ago, when we were welcoming our first-ever baby lambs to the farm. 

And while I wouldn't recommend your first crop of lambs arrival to be simultaneous with the fixing up and moving to a new farm, those days of romping, leaping fuzzy-headed lambs in the barn sure were sweet. 

A year later, and it's hard to believe what big beasts Pete and Paige have become. Just this weekend, I scheduled their appointment with a shearer and hopefully we'll finally be able to see their sweet eyes again under those fluffy cheeks.

Though I do the occasional fill-in for chore duty, Emma is their person. As soon as the back door slams and they know she's headed to the barn, the shuffling around the gate begins. 

By some magical contortions and animal husbandry tricks, she manages to get all animals out of the field and sorted into pens, fed, watered and bedded down for the night. 

In a few days, we'll add two more lambs to our flock that will be Emma's 4-H project for this year. There are pens to be built, hay to be bought and trucks arranged (or else we'll be carrying them home in our laps, not unheard of in my family.) 

After this year off, I'm thinking that we might have to get back in the baby lamb business again. Looking back at these pictures is like flipping through the pages of my girls' photo albums...I'm probably only remembering all the good and forgetting the stress, worry and sleepless nights. But still, we consider doing it all over again.

I'm not sure I'll be able to top four

If you follow me on Instagram, you may have picked up on the fact that my youngest child is mildly horse crazy. (understatement of the year.) Her riding helmet and jockey goggles are pretty much standard daily uniform. We've watched The Man From Snowy River so many times that we've burned out the chase scene--right where the horses start galloping through the snow in slow-motion. She talks about Jim and Jessica like they were family.

If she's not downstairs on her belly playing with her horses in front of the wooden barn (we scored out of the neighbor's TRASH), she's upstairs on the rocking horse listening to the soundtrack from The Man From Snowy River and reciting lines perfectly in time with the scenes from the movie. 

So, when it came up at our New Year's Eve party that my aunt and cousin's had the perfect little Shetland Pony that could come live here as long as we wanted, plans were set in motion for the best birthday present a four-year-old girl could want.

This weekend was the big day. An extra stall was secretly made ready in the barn. A trip to Dover Saddlery "just for fun" was actually me shoving brushes and tack boxes at the ladies behind the register (who were delightfully in on the secret) while Birdy was lost in the corner full of Breyer horses. Trailers were arranged. Family gathered. 

While everyone assembled outside, I stayed on the inside of the house trying desperately to keep Birdy away from windows. Birdy, who was suddenly completely uninterested in watching a movie or any other normal distraction a four-year-old would like. (We ended up making beds together. Go figure.)

Elizabeth was also being surprised with the pony. She's slowly moving up the ranks as the next horsey girl in the family, and I knew she'd get just as much (if not more) fun out of the pony. There's nothing like a little Shetland to help you learn the ropes of riding--especially when you get bucked off and it's not very far to fall. (Both girls have already tested this philosophy.)

Just as I thought, they were stunned to silence. No tears of joy. No squeals of excitement. Just mouths open, eyes unbelieving. But as the dust settled on what had just happened, the joy was pretty evident.

Seriously, there's not much better than this on your birthday.

The next morning, as I was carrying Birdy downstairs for breakfast, we stopped at the window at the landing, which gave us a perfect view of the red pony grazing in the field. Tinkerbell, is her name. And Birdy leaned in to me and whispered, "I'm so happy Tinkerbell gets to live with me."

Happy birthday, Birdy. And PS. I'll probably never be able to top this. 

Sledding on the farm is no joke

If one thing has become clear in the past few days, it's that my family does not fool around when it comes to sledding. After the winter of last year, where hardly a flake fell to the ground, we're taking full advantage of the powder covering the hills this year. 

The back hill on my grandfather's farm has some serious hills. Though I feel like none of my pictures quite capture the breath-taking terrain (and I mean that in both the beauty and the "you want me to sled down THAT?") it is the ideal sledding spot. 

The perfect place to send your toddler whizzing down the hill on a round plastic disc. 

If the speed of the hill and wipeout potential doesn't get you, then the stream snaking through the bottom of the hill or the small pond on your left might. Not to mention the concrete cattle waterers. 

My husband errs on the side of "kids have been doing this forever, they'll be fine." while I would like to micro-manage every send off and be sure I'm sending them down the hill in a path to land perfectly between pond and stream. 

One of the things that I love about watching this, is to see my kids' personalities emerge on the hill. One is fearless. One will try it once or twice, but that's plenty for her. One just goes and goes and goes and loves to talk about how much each lump and bump hurt. 

But there was one sledder among us, who doesn't fool around. 

Waxing up the runners. We're not fooling around here, people.

Lord help me be this adventurous and nimble at 84. Let me still be climbing on sleds and hoofing it back up the hills. 

I'm pretty sure my grandfather loves this just as much as the small sledders. 

When the hill seemed like it just wasn't fast enough or sending people far enough, things got serious. 

The tractor came out.

A path was packed down and suddenly my dear children were skidding down the hill on a trail of new speeds and distances.  (If you look closely at the picture above, you'll see my oldest daughter climbing out of the stream bed.) Everyone needs a good sledding story, I tell her. Mine involves a big hill, a jump and a tailbone so bruised I missed two months of my high school basketball season. 

After sledding, we came inside for a dinner of steak and warm soup and a celebration of Robbie Burns's birthday (more on that soon.) and between dessert and hot chocolate everyone was back on the hill, sledding by moonlight. 

I'd lose sight of them about halfway down the hill and throw out a little prayer that they were fine at the bottom--made obviously clear when I'd hear whopping and laughing from the darkness.