My fantasy right now...
Well dear reader, at this point in this particular week, I am over being a farmer. I am waaaaaay over animals of any sort. I am also over terrible, sleep depriving schedules. I may have had my fill of my bibbed wearing buddy. The Bean is refraining from making fart noises… (trump noises if you’re British…this makes me giggle), and she is being super helpful…so, I will keep my bean. However, everyone else can go.
Last night was my first shift of feeding baby piglets every hour. I can’t be annoyed with them. They truly are adorable, tiny, and helpless and now they view us as their mama because we provide them with warm milk every hour, on the hour. I have come to the conclusion; I am too old for newborns. When The Bean was a pea pod, I happily got up and fulfilled all her needs, every four hours for the first three months. It took her forever to hit the ten-pound benchmark. She would have slept all night as soon as she came home from the hospital but I was so fearful her blood sugar would drop too low, that I woke her up every four hours to feed her. I felt it was a gift to be able to experience all stages of motherhood, especially the newborn stage. However, I was thirty-six and more spry than I am now. I also have no true love of pigs. They are cute now, but in a matter of weeks they will be pushy, biting, rude little beasts who cannot be insulted. As if losing their mama was not injury enough, now add the insult of sleep deprivation and we are one grumpy farm family.
It is August, The Bibbed Wonder in all his humorous ways, has always made the comparison of teenagers and their hormones to August time goats. I now have a complete and full understanding of this comparison. My girls are in an amorous mood, which makes them act like brainless idiots. I spent more time trying to coax them onto the milk stand than I actually spent milking them. After many games of jump the milk stand, kick the milk bucket, and deciding they are finished being milked before they are actually finished, then resuming the game of jump the milk stand again, I am over amorous goats.
We have our billy goat, Abu, separated from the girls. Abu of course has to have company so we have our wethers, Wacko and Yacko…the original smiling goat…in the pasture with him. Wacko and Yacko are not impressed with their new living quarters, their new roommate, or their new job of keeping Abu company. Nubian goats are notorious for being loud and vocal when displeased. I actually can’t blame them. Abu has turned into a stereotypical billy goat. Now, when I sit on my porch trying to enjoy the view and the quiet, I have to listen to Abu make his flirtatious lip smacking, tongue waggle noise and bawl to the ladies across the way. He has also taken to urinating on everything within reach of his nasty penis. I smell him when the wind blows just right and it too makes me think, I could do without horny goats and be perfectly happy.
My hens, yes, they too could go. You see, I am a notoriously poor gardener. I think plants, once planted in the ground should be self sufficient and not be needy. This year was going to be the year I turned a new leaf…so pun intended. I planted plants in my pots, my containers, and cultivated a very British looking herb garden…if I do say so myself. I channeled my inner Beatrix Potter. My darling hens, who are supposed to supply my family with an endless plethora of multi-colored eggs and be pest eating heroes have taken to jumping into my pots, containers, and herb garden and scratching away at my plants. They have killed my dill. They are doing a good job of taking out the chamomile as well. Every morning when I water my well-intended attempt at plant cultivation, I put the sprayer of the hose on jet, and spray the pesky, feathered, plant killers hoping today will be the day they understand that this is bad…of course yelling, “NO, BAD CHICKEN! BAD! BAD!” They have a brain approximately the size of a bean; I don’t think this is going to be a quick lesson…sigh.
While on the topic of my well-intended herb garden, my big, red dog crush is also in my line of fire. I watched as my basil grew into flourishing, bushy, green, healthy beauties and then suddenly began to wilt away and die. At first, I blamed the hens. However, I caught my big, red, dog crush urinating on my lovely herb garden that I intended to use for cooking and I was livid. He too got sprayed with the jet sprayer, with a few choice words included in my tirade of, BAD DOG! OH, BAD F****** DOG! BAD! BAD! SO F****** BAD!” Buster is now welcome to go with the urinating billy goat.
My bibbed wearing buddy, although not urinating on my plants is on my last frazzled nerve. You see, our family only has room for one control freak…that would be me. I wear my title with strength and pride but The Bibbed Wonder has obviously decided to challenge me for that title. He has begun to question my abilities in all things and I fantasize about punching him in his…you can fill in the blank…sometimes throat, sometimes areas south of the throat. After I was up every hour to feed his piglets that I have no real love for, he asked me if I heated the milk for 2.5 minutes. He asked if I cleaned their bowl with bleach water before I fed them. He asked if I counted all the babies to make sure everyone was accounted for. He asked if I made sure the gate was latched. However, the cherry on top of this early morning interrogation was when he asked me if I made pig noises while entering the stall. This was answered with a steely gaze, an obscene gesture, and few choice words to reinforce that obscene gesture. Mind you, I had not even had a cup of coffee yet. Then, he has the nerve to say, “Well, you’re certainly full of grumpy bears today!”
Sigh, just give me a cottage on a deserted island for a few days. Honestly, it could be a hut near a puddle but as long as I was away from it all, I would think it paradise…insert Cold Play’s song Paradise. A dear, wise woman encouraged me with the phrase, “this too shall pass.” Yes, it will pass…obviously painfully, with sleep deprivation, and perhaps a few casualties but pass it will. I’m sure, lessons will be learned, patience will be tested and exercised, and we will move onto some other challenge, leaving this behind. However, in all seriousness, truer words were never spoken, this too shall pass. As with everything one must face in life, remember, it shall pass.
As always dear reader, stay safe, stay smart, wash your hands…and obviously, wash your basil before you ingest it.