Baby goat watch commences . . . now

And all you can do is better next time.

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It's another frigid week here at the base of the mountains in Colorado. Baby human quarantine mixed with freezing snow days is starting to break my spirit. It almost makes me feel like this could quickly turn into a Ken Burns-style dispatch about the tortuous struggles fighting the oatmeal v. gummy bear breakfast wars.

Gummy bear oatmeal was consumed in the great compromise of 2022 and the baby committee surrendered and fell asleep on my lap. It felt like a victory of sorts.

Baby goat watch started in earnest tonight - I wasn't planning it for a few more days, but I went out to check on the girls in the snow, and one of my pregnant mamas, Late, was acting a little squirrely.

Last year was Late's first year kidding (referred to as a first freshener - a first-time mama), and it could have gone better.

Usually, once you know what to look for, it's pretty easy to tell if a goat is about to go into labor. Their udders will start to fill up, they'll begin to separate themselves from the herd, paw at the ground, and finally, the two ligaments that hold up their tail will almost entirely disappear. If you run your fingers down along their spine, you can feel the ligaments normally, and once you can't, babies usually appear within a day.

Last year, Late didn't show any signs. She went off on her own a little bit but never really had those physical signals that she was about to pop. I missed it. When I finally realized what was happening, it was too late for one of her twins; he froze.

I remember the sinking feeling as I ran across the pasture and saw the little mound not moving. Late had done her best. She cleaned him and his sister, Lemony Moon Pie, up as well as she could. But it was too cold for her to keep both going. I should have been there. I should have known.

When I wrapped him in a towel, I cried.

There are many times when farming that I am reminded of the fragility of life, and by extension, its unlikely magic. A few degrees one way or the other is the difference between an entire life or an entire death. The stakes seem so high when mistakes end in tragedy. And all you can do is better next time.

Because I love the buck that Late had been bred to last year, I planned on keeping that boy as a new herd sire. I hoped for that boy. So, it was an extra gut punch that he didn't make it. I'm not an "it was meant to be" person, especially as his death feels like my failure, but if he had lived, we wouldn't have kept Cinnamon.

Cinnamon's sire just got his Finished Champion (a big deal to goat people) this year, and he is shaping up to be a great sire. So, although it was only because the boy I truly wanted didn't make it, I'm glad we didn't castrate little Cinny. I bet he's glad, too.

This morning it was negative seven degrees, and that's just a preposterous temperature no matter where you are. According to my calendar, the earliest possible kidding date was yesterday (based on what day the girls went in to Fernando's pen). But kids likely should be coming starting Sunday (based on what day I think they were bred - yes, you check for that the way you think you check for that.)

We're in the kidding window, though, so I am starting to get antsy. When I went out to check on the girls this afternoon, Late was acting just a little off. There is no physical reason to think she's going to kid early. I have her likely kidding date as Monday, but I keep having flashbacks to last year. She seemed just a little less friendly one day, and *BAM* babies.

Knowing that about Late, mixed with the frigid weather, meant that I decided it was time to pull the three does who are due this week inside early. Besides their deep annoyance with me, there's no harm to having them in their pens. However, they were also annoyed as I was the one who apparently kept spitting the white stuff from the sky, so it's really a no-win situation with that crew.

Although I planned to clean out and prepare the goat kidding pens this week with the human children in tow - I never got around to it. So, of course, I managed to scoop them out and lay new straw just in time to try to herd three very angry, very cold, and very pregnant goats all the way across the property just as the sun set. It was a sub-optimal situation. But, they’re inside, warm, tucked in, baking babies.

I set up the spy camera baby monitors to our wifi and now am fighting my obsessive voyeuristic tendencies. It's hard not to hit "refresh" and pull up the feed every few minutes, but I could do nothing else but sit on baby watch if I let myself.

Hopefully, you'll be getting an email from me that's nothing but pictures of new babies in the next few days. I already have reservations on two of my boys (and hopefully Late will give me the first one) and a goat yoga studio looking for my small prancing wonders.

Kidding season is like getting a pack of lottery scratch-off tickets where every one is a winner. The only question remaining is: what flavor of winning did you get?

So, I'll try not to obsess too much over the next few days waiting for babies - but I promise nothing.

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