It's 45 degrees and sun's finally broken out from behind the damp blanket of clouds that draped over central Texas for days. I'm not cut out for this weather. The couch is piled with papers and documents that urgently need to become a product for work, but my eyes are caught by the hens scratching at bugs near the back door and the pile of goats and great pyrenees snoozing under a stand of elm in the creek bed. From the kitchen window I see the new round bale set out a day ago. Six donkey bottoms face me and two bucklings and one calf sleep together inside the hay ring on top of a bundle of hay. Maddie's head disappears into the bale, her body a shock of blonde against the post oaks leaning behind her. It's been months since Jeremy scattered grass seed but because of the week of rain, the ground's finally covered in shoots of green. The pasture spreads with a faint mist of grass, the promise of spring already lurking.
Inside, the remnants of a fire pop quietly in the wood stove, and I'm eating homemade granola topped with yogurt from Maddie's milk. I stirred our wild honey into the tea pot, and the Lumineers hum on the stereo. I lit candles just to melt them down and use their glass containers to plant the succulents picked up this weekend. It's beautiful outside, and I'm a caged animal pacing the house looking out windows onto this sunny winter day. I'd rather be in the barn, potting the plants, sitting in the hay bale with Rodeo and the bucklings.
And I can't stop worrying about those goat babies. Jolene appears ready to pop at any moment. It could be
today; I'll be shocked if we don't have babies here before the weekend.
I woke up at 2:30 a.m. to sit with her in the 28 degree
morning. I'm not cut out for this waiting. Not just for the event itself but knowing there's another big change coming. As usual. And in the middle of all this I'm supposed to work?