Final Vulva Pic!

They're here!!!! They arrived this morning unassisted at about 9 am or so I estimate. I saw Rosie walking in the field when I got up at 7 am, and found her and her babies at about 11 am in the tractor tent. The babies were already close to being dry and were up and staggering around, trying to eat. All is totally and completely well!! So, although we missed the birth (and the mucousy pre-labour Vulva shot), this is the best kind of situation possible: the doe delivers the kids independently without issue.

Rosie had 2 kids this morning, on Wednesday, the 9th.  There were no casualties, both babies survived (and are very very well!!) and the crazy fishtail teats are functioning brilliantly. (both of the fishtails on both sides provide great milk!) We have moved mama and the babies into a nice stall of their own, where they'll spend the next week or so, so we can monitor them and keep them warm and dry.

But, you have to wait for pictures. I can give you a few details, but the reason you have to wait is because of the Kid Contest. We have a three way tie!!!!! For all 4 questions!!! Unbelievable and something I never would have anticipated.

The winners were Appletree43, Pitchick, and WalkOn Border Collies; obviously highly intuitive women!!!

In order to break the tie, I have two more questions for the three of you to answer. In the case of a tie still after that, the winners will all win itunes gift cards. I have contacted the three winners and asked them to submit their answers soon so we can move onto the cute pictures and video footage!

The tie-breaking questions are:

1) What sex are the two kids?
2) What colour(s) are the two kids?

Good luck!
And, here is your final Vulva picture for Rosie; a little placenta for ya....

Eat, Drink, and Be Gluttonous on this Fat Day

It's the Day of Many Names, which provided for confusion amongst many in the schoolyard this morning.  "What the heck is Pancake Tuesday??? Shrove Tuesday?"  When S.Rube told me last night that "we need to eat pancakes tomorrow. Mrs. Learn (yes, that is really and truly her teacher's name) told us we need to eat pancakes tomorrow", I knew precisely that she was referring to Pancake Tuesday. I grew up with the annual event, and, rather than having them for breakfast, I recall having them for dinner every year on this special day. And I'm sure there were years where my mom spent her day at school making pancakes for all of the kids.

But, could I tell you the significance of it? Not really. My answer to the other moms this morning was sketchy at best. None of them indicated that they had any clue what I was talking about and had never heard of Pancake Tuesday. I said something like "I'm not sure what it means. I think it might have something to do with Lent starting, and something called Shrove Tuesday, which is obviously very Christian-based. So maybe us unChristians came up with our own unreligious version and made it all about pancakes. mmmmm."  and maple syrup of course.

And then my American friends mentioned that it was Fat Tuesday. (Leave it to the Americans to call it like it is, eh?). Which instantly triggered the words "Mardi Gras" in my head. They explained that Fat Tuesday comes the day before Ash Wednesday, which is the start of Lent. So, today is the last day to party it up before you give it all up for Lent. (think New Orleans and lots of boobs!)

Wikipedia provided me with some answers. Today IS Shrove Tuesday, Fat Tuesday, Pancake Tuesday and Mardi Gras, depending on where you're from and what Christian religion you subscribe to.  It IS the day of gluttony prior to abstaining for Lent.  Pancake Tuesday or Pancake Day is specific to the United Kingdom, Ireland and Canada, where eating rich pancakes on Shrove Tuesday helped to use up the eggs, milk and sugar that would be given up for Lent.

So, eat and drink whatever the hell you want today, all in the name of whatever the hell you want to call it. (a great excuse to empty a couple of bottles of wine mid-week....)

In this house, I shall sit on my Pagan fence and call it Waffle Tuesday, and we'll eat them because S.Rube doesn't like pancakes (you try telling her that they're the same thing). and we'll eat them just because we like them, not because we're giving them up tomorrow. and we'll eat them because "Mrs. Learn said it was okay for us to eat waffles instead of pancakes."

GAME ON!!

Thanks to everyone who took part in voting for the Kid Contest. I've posted the guesses under the comments section of that Kid Contest Details blog entry.
Still no babies as of this morning. I'll be sure to keep you all updated regularly!

I was never a runner

I realize that my strong need to gush about running all the time in my real life (as opposed to this virtual life) is because I still can't believe that I run. It's like I'm surprised about it myself, and need that validation that it is, in fact, true.
I was never a runner.  In fact, one of my regular responses to conversations about running, or cardio in general, has always been "I can't run. I only run if someone's chasing me, and even then, it wouldn't get me very far. I couldn't run to the end of our driveway, let alone the corner."
I used to have this recurring dream about my inability to run; where I just couldn't get my legs and feet going, despite all efforts. ( I know there's way more subconscious analysis needed for that one, but still....). I hated running when I was a kid. I remember in high school that I got a note from my doctor telling the phys.ed. department that I had asthma and was to be exempt from running. The fact that I couldn't run probably had more to do with the fact that I weighed 80 pounds and was eating just enough to barely survive, let alone run around the track at school. I was great on the top of a cheerleading pyramid, and enjoyed downhill skiing and water skiing regularly while in season. None of which required a lot of energy.
Through my 20's, I took up smoking and drinking, and did start weight lifting and circuit training a bit. But, avoided cardio at all costs!

At some point a couple of years ago, still unable to lose that last 10 pounds of excess baby weight, I resolved that strength training and a proper diet alone was not going to achieve it. I needed to start burning calories.  So, I hopped on the treadmill at the gym instead of weight lifting one morning. And I walked, then ran for a minute, then walked, then ran. And I continued to do that 3-4 days a week, slowly increasing my distances and the time spent, until I reached the point where I was running for an hour.
That was a year ago.

And my runner friends started to bug me about running on a treadmill and told me that I had to get my ass outside on the pavement. At the same time, I started fantasizing about running a race. But, it couldn't be any old race. If I was going to do it, I was going to do it big. So, I picked one of my top two cities in the world (Whistler being the other one) and registered online for the Las Vegas Marathon/Half Marathon in December. Straight up and down Las Vegas Blvd; a street very familiar to me. To have the opportunity to run it would be exhilirating! That was in March. and I started to prepare, running 3 days a week through the summer, and then fully submersed myself in a training program that started in September.

Through rain, sleet, snow and hail (and the very occasional sunny day) I ran into October, and all of November. It was on the days when the conditions outside were the worst, and I had runs of 2+ hours in duration, where I felt the best. Every time a car passed me, I imagined the warm and dry people inside commenting on how crazy I was. And it made me run harder and faster and higher. I was that crazy committed girl out running in the freezing cold torrential rain. And I soon became that dedicated athlete that people driving by imagined I was.

That runner.

The same runner who clocked 16 km today underneath the brilliant sunshine with Mt.Baker in view and the lambs hopping in the fields that I ran by.
54 days til Oregon!!

Kid Contest Details

We're having a contest this week!

With an actual prize!! The winner will receive a $15 gift card from iTunes, where you can redeem music, books, movies and apps. So, be sure to place your vote. Submit your answers in the form of leaving a comment, and make sure I know who you are, especially if you're submitting under "anonymous" or some other made-up name, like Mayan Love Goddess. I'll receive your votes and won't post them all until the contest deadline is over.

As you know, if you've been following the Vulva Watch this week, we are anxiously awaiting goat babies.
Rosie is getting closer and closer to labour, and we're gonna speed things up by having a contest.

Here are the details:

Question #1: What day will Rosie give birth? (see previous Vulva Watch posts for this week's progress reports.)
Question #2: How many kids will Rosie have? (first-timer here so we really have no idea. Does will have 1-5 kids, with 2-4 being the average.)
Question #3:  Will all the kids survive the pregnancy and the labour? (the harsh realities of the farm.)
Question #4: Will Rosie be able to provide milk to all of her kids with those malformed fish tail teats without us having to bottle-feed?

Each question acts as a tie breaker for the one above it. So, if you get the first one wrong, you are automatically out of the race.... unless nobody gets the first one right, in which case I'll move onto the second question. Get it?

Contest deadline is Monday at midnight, so March 7th at 11:59 pm.  (if the kids are born prior to that time, those answers submitted to me up to that time will stand.)

Good luck!

Dear Charlie Sheen

You are a train wreck at the top of your Hollywood game.  And the world is watching.

I'm going to mention you once, and then hope to never bring up your name again. (although that's probably unlikely considering the absolute whackjob you are...the chance of a newsworthy item popping up around you soon is very likely.) Because we, the public, are sick of hearing about you. But, then when your friggin' face shows up yet again on TV that night, we get sucked in. We can't help but watch you, because...well.....you are truly bizarre. You remind me of Coach from Survivor, in fact.....the Dragon Slayer....remember that guy? You two should get your dragons and tigers and slaying swords and shit together and really start a revolution. In your own minds. Even better, on your own planet!

I have a friend who is pleasantly addicted to your "brilliance". I, however, watch you and see 'BIPOLAR' screaming back at me from the intensity in your eyes.  I don't deny the intelligence behind those fucked up eyes. You make a good argument; you present your case with thought and passion, and then you go and throw the old "tiger blood" in there, totally disqualifying yourself. 

I feel the need to respond to some of the statements I heard from you this past week on TV:

 "I'm tried of pretending I'm not a total bitchin' rock star from Mars, and people can't figure me out; they can't process me. I don't expect them to. You can't process me with a normal brain."  

You're right about not being able to process you with our normal brains. And I am really starting to believe that you are from Mars actually.  And, please don't tell me that you're releasing a friggin' rock album. That'd be the icing on the cake.

"I'm different. I have a different constitution, I have a different brain, I have a different heart. I got tiger blood, man." 

Damn, there's that tiger blood shit. You had us until you brought up the tiger blood. Fail.

"I live with two smokin' hotties....These are my girlfriends. These are the women that I love that have completed the three parts of my heart. ... It's a polygamy story."

I hate to break it to you, studmuffin, but Sister Wives beat you to it. Polygamy is old news. You'll have to find another publicity angle. Besides, clearly your goddesses are with you for the money, after admitting that 'even this was better than taking the bus to my old $8/hr job'.  And, what's up with the 3 parts of your heart? Three? Another validation for the 'I'm from Mars' argument really.

"I am on a drug. It's called Charlie Sheen. It's not available. If you try it once, you will die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body."

Geez. Apparently it sucks to be you. And your weeping children. ...I think. On second thought, I really don't know what the fuck this whole statement means.  I do know that you have somehow survived being you this long. And that you think nobody else could. Which is probably fairly accurate. More accurate would be the fact that nobody else would want to be you.

"Bipolar, what's Bipolar? I'm bi-winning."

Oh really? I'd hate to see what bi-losing looks like. Cuz we're all watching bi-lunatic there and thinking that this really isn't as bi-impressive as you might bi-think. (p.s. look in the mirror. you'll totally remember what Bipolar was).

"Clearly I've defeated this earthworm with my thoughts."

Whoaaa, impressive. An earthworm!! Now that takes some serious brain power.

"Imagine what I would have done with my fire-breathing fists."

Look, we already met your two skanky goddess girls, so we are having no problem imagining that. It's what you refer to as double-fisting it, right? I call it dirty."

"You borrow my brain for five seconds and just be like dude, can't handle it, unplug this bastard. It fires in a way that is, I don't know, maybe not from this terrestrial realm. When you've got tiger blood and Adonis DNA, it's like, get with the program dude."

Let's just call it what it is, tiger. Bipolar.   And the program you're following....it's the wrong one. There's really effective drug therapy programs to aid what you've got.

I think it's that strange eclectic group of young people that you are calling your 'team'; that you sit at the round table in your kitchen at "Sober Valley Ranch" with smoking your faces off and brainstorming your next move. They look like they belong at the skate park with their homey ball caps and hoodies pulled up fully over their faces, yet they're coming up with your strategies for publicity and business.  And somehow I guess it's working.

While, at the same time, your children were just removed from your home and your family seems convinced that drugs alone have created your insanity and are unable to help you. It seems like quite a trade-off for money and fame. But, I won't offer pity. You don't need our pity. You are on the bipolar cocaine train to Whore Town and the Winner's Express don't stop in Pity City, because that's where the losers live.

So, ride on, Charlie. Whether we're watching or not, you'll be on that Crazy Train.

Vulva Watch for Saturday

And, still, we continue to wait; all eyes on the Vulva for progress and the big sign that we're ready to blow.  I can see further swelling and distension today, and the last couple of days Rosie has not been walking around as much or moving as quickly, and even laying down a fair bit.

Julio figured I should stop snapping dirty pics of the girls and did what he could to get himself between me and the camera...

Kale Chips

i heard it said recently that if you're at a loss what to blog one day, you can always resort to posting a favourite recipe. Well around these parts, my failure to come up with a creative thought or two for you usually results in a post about the history of goat teats or the analysis of a piece of poo. Not a recipe. (and by the way, our goat and Vulva Watch is just fine still. No new updates and not a lot of change. I'll spare you the pictures again today.)

But as I set about making one of my favourite snacks today, I thought I'd share it with you.
I discovered my love of kale chips a year or two ago and it continues to be a favourite around here.

Buy nice curly kale and wash it well.

Break the kale up into chip-sized pieces, avoiding the hard spine of the leaf in the middle.

Toss with a bit of olive oil and salt.

Lay out on a cookie sheet, well spaced.

Pop into a preheated oven at 350 degrees and cook for about 12 minutes. Check often at the end to assure the leaves aren't getting brown. You want to cook it long enough so they remain green but get crispy. Otherwise they will be bitter.

Now i love a product called nutritional yeast. (on popcorn it's awesome too!) You don't have to use this, but it gives the kale chips a nice cheesy taste, and is full of nutritional value for us, like a ton of B vitamins. You can read more about nutritional yeast here. If you choose to use the yeast, sprinkle some on immediately after taking the chips out of the oven.

Scoop into a bowl and this crunchy treat is ready to eat.

"Green chips" are a fave of T.Rube's!

Water and keyboards do not mix

Darn little T.Rube! That kid spills more cups of water than a stage 3 Parkinson's patient. (I watched Love and Other Drugs last night and the tremors are fresh in my mind. Good movie, by the way.) She falls about as often as she spills too. But is, at the same time, incredibly physical and agile. Despite her skill, she is full of bruises.

But today it is my Apple keyboard that becomes a casualty.

The 3,E,D, and C gone, just like that.

I wonr how many of you coul follow if i wrot in my nw rypti o. It rtainly ma my googl sarhs intrsting, but is atually abl to fin what i intn somhow. But i hav ha to rsort to using my iPa for typing until i rpla it. Whih is a littl slow-going for my liking. I prfr to b abl to pun it out as quik as th thoughts om into my brain.

Sounds like the perfect excuse to buy a nice wireless board that'll work with both the computer and the 'Pad.

"Sticks and stones may break your bones, but watching naked people on stage doing pleasurable things will never hurt you."

Ahhhh. And I thought I went to a liberal college, where my human sexuality class taught me all about homosexuality and one of my publish-perfect A+ papers was based on the topic of butch and femme in lesbian relationships. But my post-secondary schooling sure as hell didn't include a live demonstration of a female orgasm, although I definitely would've been one of the students choosing to stay.

Did you all hear about this??
A popular and provocative human sexuality class at Northwestern University in Illinois had the distinct pleasure (no pun intended) of being witness to a woman being brought to orgasm...by an electrically operated power tool that had been converted to a dildo.
It looked something like this:

The professor believed that the demonstration would allow the students to further explore the intricacies of sexuality as a scientific inquiry and saw nothing wrong with offering the demo to his senior class. The peep show was optional, although most of the students chose to remain in class to watch it and, by all eyewitness accounts, these students were falling all over each other to get a "better view". (duhhhhhh....of course they were!) The girl was penetrated by her boyfriend and the entire ordeal took 3.5 minutes from start to finish. (I know! Where can we get our hands on one of these toys? They sound highly effective...)

The boys being interviewed by news media were highly charged as they left the demo class, although many did state they thought the demo was unneccesary. The others, not interviewed, had raced home, or, more likely, into nearby bathroom stalls; unable to talk to the media.

Auto-correct at its finest.....

This shit is just too funny to not share. I'm crying here I'm laughing so hard.
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/category/best-of-dyac/

There are three types of housewives

(and, yes, I realize this is coming from an extremely traditional place, where the women do much of the work in the home and the men put their feet up. But, seriously, there are very few, if any, homes I know where this isn't the arrangement. I am definitely in charge of the house and all of its functionings, whether I like it or not. (And, if I can be blunt (why stop now right?), sometimes I don't friggin' like it.)

Because, let's face it, it's not easy taking care of the house.


So, the way I see it is:
1. There are those of us who are not good housekeepers but stress about our messy homes.
2. And there are those of us who are not good housekeepers but we don't stress about our messy homes.
3. And there are those of us who are good housekeepers, because we're obsessed and anal, and keeping house is what we worry about and spend all our time doing.

And, okay... maybe, just maybe, there is a fourth woman. (but I seriously doubt it.)
The woman who keeps a nice tidy home while not stressing about it and not spending an infinite amount of time on it. But, if this woman exists, a) I haven't met her yet and b) I can guaranfuckingtee she doesn't have children.
(and, if I have somehow missed this awe-inspiring trait in one of my friends, please identify yourself to me immediately!! We need to bottle you for distribution pronto!)

I kinda vascillate between all these; the fluctuations likely a result of my hormones. (Which is my excuse for everything, you should know. And rightfully so.)

At different points throughout every month, I am all of these women.

I am most relaxed and happy, though, in a clean, tidy, organized and otherwise aesthetically pleasing environment. (That's the lovely Libra in me.) But I don't spend a lot of time cleaning. I find that there's more than enough daily-routine-and-maintenance crap that has to be attended to and that combined with the farm chores, there's no real time for cleaning. And I don't want to be one of the moms who spends her 2 hours taking care of the house while her kid's in preschool a few days a week. I use that time to make ME better, not my house. That's when I run.

However, I, like many, require a tidy and clean home when guests are coming over.
(Well, mostly clean.. except for cobwebs. I don't do cobwebs and I live in a lodge-style home with cathedral ceilings and a vast number of spiders. So, there are a lot of cobwebs up high in out-of-reach places, as my friend M pointed out to everybody at a girls night gathering a few weekends ago. Thanks M!)
So I long ago learned that having people over helps to maintain a tidy home. But this also creates a very neurotic and slightly homicidal mother...always trying to keep the house clean. It's a losing battle. And one that I often temporarily just give up on.
Until we are having guests once more, and I have to set about preparing the house.

Which was the case today because T.Rube was having a playdate with her best friend C.  And C had never been over for a playdate alone before and her mom is a good friend of mine, so I wanted to make a good impression.
On a 4 year old.
When I started to contemplate that further last night as I prepared to clean the house, I realized I was fucking crazy. And that cleaning the house for a 4 year old playdate, where the mom wasn't even going to be here,  was going beyond what was necessary. And bordering on anal. The house was not that bad. The floors could use a vacuum and the bathroom a quick wipe down, but otherwise things weren't bad.
But I went to T.Rube, who was awake but lying in bed and I said, "Soooooo.... when you were at C's house for your playdate, was C's room, like... clean?" To which T.Rube answered, "Well.... no. It's really messy. Like, not on the bed but on the floor, there's like toys everywhere and stuff."
Okay. Whew.
And just as I was about to ask about the rest of the house. (because I would've.), T.Rube offered up, "But, the rest of the house is totally clean. There's nothing anywhere. There's like no toys anywhere."
Okay. Shit.

I decided,though, to just retire to playing some guitar before bed, and settled on vacuuming and cleaning while the girls were playing the next day. That way C would report back to her mom that I spend my days cleaning the house. Which, somehow, in my little world, has become a desirable thing.

About a half hour into the playdate, C approaches me in the kitchen where I'm doing dishes and washing the million eggs that I wash everyday.  (okay, of course it's not really a million, but it sure as fuck feels like it some days). And she politely and sweetly (like the darlin' girl she is!) says, "Ummm, J, your house is a bit messy."
I sighed and said, "yeahhhh, it kinda is a bit messy, isn't it. Probably not like your house. But, that's okay." And then, because I couldn't just leave it at that, said, "What is it that you notice as messy? What do you see?  Like, if I were to start cleaning right now, where would you recommend I clean first?"
And she suggested I should probably vacuum the floor because there were little pine needles all around the front door area.

So, a bit defeated, I did.
And now my house is back to clean. Which may not be such a good thing.

Some Vulva and some malformed teats

Here's today's Vulva Watch....much of the same old shit from the past few days.
These babies have got to come sometime soon right??

I wanted to also share these teat pictures. Because we realize that there is a problem, and that the problem may prevent effective nursing to the kids that are about to arrive. It could mean having to bottle feed babies, or just really monitoring that the kids are actually getting milk from these deformed titties!

You can see that two of these teats are kinda attached. This is referred to as a 'fish teat' or 'fishtail teat'. Overall, this side of the udder has three teats and we are currently unsure which of them will be functioning milk-providers. This is definitely considered an unacceptable teat structure in the breed, in terms of showing the goat, but also possibly for nursing too.

These are Boer goats that we raise - meat goats - that originally come from South Africa. The farmers who started this breed of goat decided that 4 teats were preferable over 2, because they can better nurse multiple kids. (For dairy goats, 2 teats are desirable.) As a result of cross-breeding and genetics, Boer goats have a predisposition to poor teat structure. Sometimes there are just extra 'nubs' that are non-functioning, but sometimes there might be fully grown extra teats that don't have orifices, but that trick the kids into sucking from them; but providing them with no milk. Or there might be functioning orifices in all the teats, and thereby not provide enough milk to each kid if a few are sucking at the same time. Ideally, you don't want all the extra teats. And, ideally, we shouldn't really be breeding does who have dysfunctional teat structures like this. Many North American Boer goat farmers are returning to stocking 2 teat animals and flushing out the 4.

After Rosie has birthed, we will examine her teats and see which have orifices and are fully developed, and depending on how many kids she has (1 to 5, with 2 or 3 being most common), we'll have to decide if there is enough access to milk for all of them to thrive or not.
Although bottle feeding babies is cute and fun for the kids, it increases the cost and our workload.

We shall see...

A message from the wind gods

Whoa! Death totally stared me in the face just now, and then I realized it was actually a huge wooden commercial real estate sign with large black letters reading "PARVINDER GILL" accompanied by a phone number. It had blown out into the road directly in front of my car and narrowly missed striking a senior citizen walking along the sidewalk before landing right in front of me.

(Of course, I was forced to get out of the car and, with the help of Granny, managed to pull the signage off the road.)

Vulva Watch for Tuesday

I gotta wonder how many google hits I've got this week from Vulva. I'll have to go to statcounter and check out the detailed summary there. Last time I checked 'blowjob x-ray', 'rube sex' and 'do you need to refrigerate eggs?' were miles ahead of all the other search words.

Rosie's Vulva is fine out there today again. No signs of mucous or blood, and she was still interested in eating. Here's what I saw this morning:

And then CC started going crazy barking and I peeked outside to see this:
A dastardly coyote. We scared that bugger right outta there. Well, CC scared that bugger right outta there.

Nothing says "I'm Canadian" more than hockey and Roll Up the Rim

Everywhere I turn right now, people are drinking from the ever-recognizable red and yellow cups, hoping to win something more than a donut or a free coffee (although I would settle for that even!). I don't normally go to Tim Hortons because I am a snobby Starbucks drinker, but at this time of year, I feel as though I am contributing to national pride or something like that just by buying a coffee. Yesterday I found myself nodding or waving in acknowledgement to other drivers sipping from their Roll up the Rim cups, in the same way that the drivers of Harley Davidsons or Volkswagen camper vans do when they pass on the road.
Every March,  since 1986, this rich Canadian tradition unifies us from coast to coast.

Tim Hortons history is steeped in hockey. For those of you who don't know, Tim Horton was a legendary Canadian hockey player who opened his first donut store in 1964, but tragically died in a car accident 10 years later. Since that time, Tim Hortons has become the largest food service company in Canada, overtaking even McDonald's, with almost 3100 stores across the country, and another 500 in the United States.
Nobody supports youth hockey in Canada like Tim Hortons. Their name and logo is smeared across kids jerseys everywhere, and their marketing and advertising campaigns have embraced the Canadian tradition.  If this commercial doesn't spur on some sort of pride of the Maple Leaf in you, and even bring a tear to your eye, then I question the integrity of your Canadian heritage....

From the kind heart of S.Rube... on her Special Day

We can all take a lesson from my daughter today. She has me in tears on the way home from school after telling me about her "Special Day".

In her Grade One class, the kids take turns at having a Special Day. On their Day, that child gets to read out the other kids' names, do the weather, point out their spelling words aloud from the white board, hold the door open for their classmates and choose a friend in the class to walk the attendance down to the office with.

Last month sometime, S.Rube got chosen to go to the office by a friend in the class and was telling me how excited and happy she was about it. It lead me to ask her if there was anyone in the class who had never been chosen before, and she answered that, "Yes, there is one person who has never been picked." I asked who it was and S.Rube told me. (Let's call her Loralee). She told me that Loralee has no friends in the class and that nobody really ever talks to her or plays with her. We spent a few minutes talking about how sad that must be for Loralee, in the hopes that empathy for the situation might arise.

Today, I asked S.Rube how her Special Day was while we drove home. She responded that it was really good. And then she said, "And you know what, mom? You know how we talked about Loralee before and you said that I should take the time to be nice to her? Well, I picked her. I picked her to go to the office with me."

Damn, I'm crying again as I write this, which was my reaction in the car too, as the magnitude of what S.Rube had just said settled in. She picked Loralee. Out of every friend she has in that class, she picked Loralee.
And, in making Loralee's little heart soar and adding a smile to her face today, S.Rube knows undoubtedly that her own heart, too, has grown much bigger.

Vulva Watch for Monday

I had people asking me how the Vulva was doing in the schoolyard this morning, so I know that you're all itching for an update.
(ewww, itching and Vulva in the same sentence.... not so good....)

As you more-informed readers now know after Saturday night's little farm lesson, we have nothing to worry about for another day.

The Problem with Male Animals

The problem with male animals is, quite simply, that they're male animals. And the problem I see with this is two-fold. One is that they have a natural penchant for domination, particularly if you've left their 'manhood' intact. And the second is that they piss on everything.

I swore this year when Beeser died (our male American Bulldog) that I will never own a male dog again. I remember standing at the kitchen window washing eggs and watching him outside peeing on everything; from the playground to the lawn chairs to the garbage cans to the side of the house, barns and truck, the kids' toys, their bikes. Everything.

Even our human male species have this issue. Given the opportunity to pee outside or pee in the toilet, you know that most men will choose the great outdoors. I've known men to leave the confines of their home in order to pee outside. and I've certainly had guys around the farm working all day long on barn-building or clearing who have never come inside to ask to use the facilities.
A number of years ago, I had a friend visit from Toronto who stayed with us in the basement for a week. When I cleaned up the room after he left, I found his urine in a large clear blown glass vase that I had sitting on the fireplace mantle. I suspect that after a night of drinking, he saw this as a suitable receptacle to pee in. I disgustedly threw the vase in the garbage immediately, and must admit that I've never spoken to him again. I've talked about this with guys since then who admit to peeing in things, though. I have a friend who operates a big excavator who doesn't leave his vehicle for his entire 10 hour shift. It makes me wonder how many guys are peeing in an empty pop bottle as you pass them on the highway.
I guess they do it because they can.

Kinda like a male goat can pee on its own head. So it does.
Have you always wondered what that musky odour was? Well, wonder no more. A buck lowers his head and lets out his penis - which is like a long skinny curly coil - and shoots urine out all over the top of his head. At least I hope it's urine... because, now on second thought, I'm thinking it could be ejaculate. Which, even for me, is a bit too much to contemplate right now. Especially considering what I'm about to tell you. After covering his head with this stuff, he then butts up against and rubs all over the other animals.
And all over me. Which is the inspiration and reason for this post this afternoon.

One of our bucks has been a real pain-in-the-ass lately; exerting his dominance and butting his horny head all over me when I'm out there doing the chores (and trying to take vulva pictures.) Today, after fighting him for a half hour, he finally put his head down, and I thought he was going to leave me be. I realized though, as I looked down, that the bugger was peeing on his head. and on me! I jumped out of the way and packed in my photography quest for the day.

I'm on Vulva Watch

A warning to you all....
These are some of the explicit goat pictures that I told you about. The ones that'll make a few of you squirm. But, kinda similar to the car accident scene, you cautiously peek out from behind your fingers to take a look. Because most of you are fascinated by this kind of thing.

I want to share it with you because it is just part of my daily life right now. And I share such crazy and personal things like peeing my pants, puking at bikram and stepping in dog shit. So why not share this too?
And, okay.... I like to know you're shaking your head a bit at me; thinking I slightly crossed the line. I like to see you squirm.

This week, I'm on Vulva Watch.

This is Rosie, one of our two Boer does. We also have two Boer bucks. And, as a result, we're having goat babies!! (Surely, I don't have to explain the logistics and details of that phenomenon, right, city folk?)
This is Rosie's first pregnancy so we're not sure what to expect from her. Nor is she, for that matter....

Rosie's pregnancy began on October 3, we estimate. We noticed some 'action' in the field that day and made a point of documenting it. Smart thing to do, because it helps us pinpoint the due date better.
A goat's gestation period is 145-155 days, which means that Rosie could have her kids anytime.

There are a few things that I am on the watch for to indicate that Rosie could be getting close to labour. Aside from growing in size as the weeks go by, Rosie's udders also start to get big. We begin to notice the udders the month before, but in the day or two prior to the labour starting, the udders get HUGE. Like, bigger, really, than you could ever imagine them to be. HUGE.

There are certain behaviours and changes in behaviour that I want to watch out for this week, too. In the few days prior to the birth, Rosie will eat more than usual; as though stockpiling reservoirs of grain and hay. And then, the day of labour, will lose her appetite and avoid eating. She may separate herself from the others and go off on her own, as though searching for a place to have her babies.

And, then there is the Vulva.  (Which really does deserve a capital V. Ask any mother who has pushed a baby or two out of that thing).  Keeping my eye on the Vulva is crucial. It's going to tell me more than everything else combined. A few weeks prior to labour,  the doe's Vulva begins to swell and starts to distend, in preparation for pushing those babies out.  The Vulva may turn a darker red or purple colour, as the blood surges to the area. As the day gets near, the Vulva will be very distended and I will start to notice some discharge and, finally, I need to be watching for mucous and bloody show, which will indicate to me that the doe is ready to birth.
As I said, all eyes are on the Vulva.

You, knowing me, have already figured out that I couldn't let this photo opportunity pass us by.
In fact, I plan on sharing my Vulva Watch with you every day, leading up to the birth of these kids.
I gotta look at it. And I'm gonna make you look at it too and get a little taste of real farm life, you know?

As you can see in this picture, Rosie's udders are really starting to fill up. The goat on the left here is also pregnant but is about a month behind Rosie. There is a distinct difference in their Vulvas. Rosie's, although starting to distend, has not changed in colour nor is there any discharge yet. We can be fairly certain that Rosie will not be having babies on this day.