Perspectives

As I sit here, my husband deploys in 2 days. It will only be for training- we'll see him for a couple of days at the end of May before he ships out for Iraq- but it's still very final. Our life as we know it ends Friday. I knew this day was coming. This is part of what I signed up for when I agreed to marry Shawn. Furthermore, this is what I wanted- to be a military wife. But the last two months... wow. We've had some serious stuff going on, and I want to tell Uncle Sam, "You know what? Just kidding. I thought I could handle this, but I've changed my mind. You can't have him." Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way. My husband can leave and go overseas, or go to jail for going AWOL. I guess there would be a bit more honor in telling people that Shawn is "deployed" versus "in prison". You all already know that I'm pregnant, and due August 6th. So, sadly enough, on top of the regular emotions that a wife experiences while facing a deployment, I have an extra flux of hormones. I imagine that I'm quite frightening to be around. Shawn will probably feel much safer once he arrives overseas. The other day, a pregnant acquaintance sent me a message on Facebook, telling me that she would be raising her baby, alone, too. She said that she knew we would make it. I was a little confused, because last I knew, she had a loving, doting husband of less than two years. I instant messaged her, and it turns out that he has already grown tired of marriage and is currently having an affair. She is now single, and devastated. One thing that she said during our conversation is, "At least Shawn is coming back." Sometimes, all it takes is one sentence to slap you back where you need to be. She wasn't chastising me, or looking for my pity; she simply wanted me to recognize that my situation could be a lot worse. Since then, I decided to take all my mournful, dramatic laments and find the bright side of them. This is the list I have come up with so far:

1. Dramatic Lament: I will miss Shawn's scent! His cologne, his deodorant, his skin...

Bright Side: No more noxious man gasses.

2. DL: He will probably miss the birth of our first child together!

BS: He won't witness me in the ugly throes of labor and delivery.

3. DL: I'll have to sleep alone for an entire year!

BS: No more elbows to the face, or knees to my ginormous belly. Also, please refer to the bright side of #1.

4. DL: I'm going to be bored and lonely at night!

BS: I can watch all the "Dancing With the Stars" that I want on Hulu.

5. DL: Who will make me eggs or get ice cream at 11:00pm simply because he thinks I might like some?

BS: No one. Maybe you'll quit gaining so much weight.

6. DL: Who will take out the trash, or open jars that are too tight?!

BS: Remember when you could survive without a man? You need some independence.

7. DL: Who will bring me caffeine in the mornings so that I can drag myself out of bed?!

BS: The 12-pack I buy in the beginning of the week will not disappear in one day. Genevieve will bring it to you in the mornings if she knows what's good for her.

This list grows by the day as little attacks of "Poor Me Syndrome" try to get the best of me. Ultimately, I know for a fact that absence truly does make the heart grow fonder. Having daughters who are 9 and 6 years old may not seem helpful, but already they are doing what they can to be mommy's helpers, and are very proud of their roles. As a matter of fact, the other day as Genevieve wiped flat surfaces with a damp paper towel (her favorite chore in the world other than lining up our shoes in the hallway), she sighed and shook her head, saying, "I don't know what you would do without us." I don't know what I would do, either :)

Another factor contributing to frazzled nerves in this house is all of Genevieve's dermatological and allergy issues. The poor child has suffered so much lately for skin problems that would be a minor annoyance for most people. "Treatment" of her fragile epidermis has left her severely burned on two separate occasions. We've had to hold her down to peel tape off of her burns, which of course lifts off layers and layers of tender skin. Listening to her screams...it's enough to break a momma's heart. Luckily, big sister Olivia knew just what to do: she made a mix of pop and juice, stuck a straw in it, and called it a "Quiet-enator". I was frustrated, thinking that the last thing Genevieve needed was a straw in her face. However, with each scream, Genevieve would latch her mouth onto that straw and drink the special elixir. It worked wonders. Another time, when she screamed and yelled for me to blow on her wounds at the same time, she made a funny sound that the girls called her "Oprah scream". They dissolved into giggles and laughed for the rest of the bandaging session. It blew my mind. All it took was for Olivia to bring in a good attitude and some orange soda, and Genevieve practically had fun with the ordeal. I wonder, how on earth do parent's of seriously ill children do it? How can they possibly endure? I need to be grateful that Genevieve's problems lie only in her skin and allergies. I need to appreciate the consideration and ideas that Olivia brings to the table. I need to appreciate Genevieve's humor and awe of her big sister.

The last couple of months have been humbling. It is always a very painful experience when God decides I need some humbleness. About three months ago, we discussed some theology in the car, and I told Shawn and the girls that whenever I say, "God, I know I need to be humbled," some very trying experiences follow. Then I silently wondered..."wait, that didn't count, did it? It was just an example, not a true prayer request for humility." It counted. There have been many other difficulties that we have faced that I don't care to mention. We've lived. Most likely, we're stronger for it. When Friday comes and goes, we will tackle all of the new difficulties that come with a deployment, and we will become even stronger.

The Birds and the Bunnies...

That's Gay

Olivia knows what "gay" means. I asked her how she knows, and she replied, "Oh, you know, there's so much gossip in third grade." I didn't know, but I guess I do now. I asked her what gay meant, and she said that it was when two boys wanted to date, or... she rubbed the tips of her pointer fingers together and made a kissy sound. Although it took all I had to keep a straight face, I nodded as though she were wise. And truly, it helped that I was trying hard to remember when it was the last time I had seen that gesticulation for "make out". It made me feel old that I couldn't recall, but also surprisingly relevant that it was still being used by the kids these days. Olivia also told me that her friend has told her that the word "gay" is worse that saying the F word and "bull-crap" all at once. Pretty serious stuff. I clarified that the word itself is not bad at all, but that if you use it in the wrong way, it can be very hurtful (saying "that's gay" when you really mean "that's stupid"). I never thought I would use Saturday Night Live as a teaching tool, but it was appropriate for this moment. Satan was being interviewed on Weekend Update (SNL's faux news segment), and there were jokes about Westboro Baptist and how the devil was even appalled by these actions. Of course this led to discussions of Christianity, and how we are expected to treat people. I loved the talk, and was very proud of Olivia. Homosexuality was easy to talk about.

However... homosexuality in rabbits? Different story. Let me start at the beginning. We decided to raise rabbits for our own meat. We got a male and female pair from a man in St. Cloud. Of course, by now, you know me well enough to know that somehow, we had sought out a total nut-case to sell us our animals. That's how we roll. He showed me the genitalia of each bunny to prove they were different. I shrugged and said, "Looks the same to me." I don't know how a rabbit's vagina is supposed to look for crying out loud. Over the months, we had gotten all kinds of advice about how to make our rabbits mate. The male- white as snow- never showed any interest in the female, other than to occasionally snuggle. The latest pearl of wisdom we received was to separate the fluffy couple, which would make the male go crazy with desire once the two were re-united. We did this, keeping the female inside where she was exposed to more light and heat, which would make her prone to believing it was now spring. A month later, when Shawn brought the male into the house to join the female, he and the girls were beyond excited. They were going to get the rabbits to mate, which meant that soon, there would be babies!!! Growing up around animals and their mating seasons has apparently left me calloused to the miracle of conception. I could really care less about watching the bunnies get it on. Allowing Olivia and Genevieve to watch documentaries about their favorite animals had long ago exposed them to the actual sight of animals mating, and I had witnessed horses at a young age, so I wasn't too concerned about that. I chose to read back in the bedroom instead. Only a few moments later, Shawn called for me to come out to where they were gathered around the cage. I replied that, no thanks, I would really rather read. Shawn hurried into our bedroom, eyes wide, and in a desperate voice, said that he really needed my help with questions from the girls. I rose to join him, but wondered what sorts of questions the girls might have that they didn't already know. While we walked down the hallway, Shawn told me that Olivia had pointed to the female, cocked her head, and said, "Are those... testicles?" Shawn inspected, more to humor Olivia than anything, and gaped at the pair of balls that were now so obvious. He said that um, yes, those were testicles. The "female" immediately mounted the male and began to hump him at lightening speed. The girls promptly turned to Shawn with confused looks. Hence, his desperate calls for me. When I arrived upon the scene, the two males were frantically taking turns with each other, and the girls watched with wide eyes and mouths agape. Of course, they wanted to know why on earth the rabbits would still try to mate if they were both boys? I did my best to say that it was simply animal instinct, and that we should probably just go somewhere else and leave the guys alone for a bit. The original male rabbit had exhausted himself by now, and lay in the cage as though he were dead. Our trusty "female" was not yet depleted, and would mount any part of the other rabbit that could be obtained. The shoulder was attacked, and the girls giggled. Silly rabbit. Then, before I could push the girls away, the she-male began to rape the white rabbit's face. Another round of very difficult questions. It certainly did not help that Shawn was laughing so hard at the whole situation that he was experiencing trouble breathing. I glared at him and ushered the girls out of the room, leaving dear hubby bent over and coughing.

Now to make things more complicated, I am pregnant. Yes, this is a very joyous occasion for us! After trying for two years, Shawn and I had thought that perhaps he wasn't able to have children, or that maybe I was no longer able. We became certified for foster care, and were beyond excited for our first foster child to welcome. A sudden pregnancy has halted those plans, but we know we'll pick them up again. Olivia and Genevieve have now had to come to terms with the fact that Shawn and I have "mated". I cringe when I picture the rabbits, and wonder if they have that image still burned into their minds. I also can't help but wonder... do they wonder if that's how we went about the process? Not something I want to ponder. I really shouldn't be surprised that although my daughters were begging for a baby brother or sister previously, when we told them that I was pregnant, they burst into tears. I see many sessions of therapy in their futures. Some time has passed, and the girls now know that they will be getting a baby brother in the beginning of August. This has helped. They also know that in May, Shawn gets deployed for a year, and that makes them feel like very important helpers for mommy. I hope that a baby brother will help make up for some of the trauma!

Baby, it's cold outside.

Chores are much more difficult in this frigid weather. Our high for today is predicted to be 4 degrees, and tonight, it is expected to dip to -11. Fortunately, we have found a heated drinking bowl for the goats, with a metal coil on the outside of the cord so they can't chew through it. However, even the heated bowl will get a bit of frost on it, in temperatures like this. You would think that chores would be the same, just colder, during the winter. Not true. The animals seem to think that this is a good time to make things more difficult for me.

I'll start with Emma, our dog- she loves to "encourage" me. When it's time to milk, she'll stand in front of me and stare. If I don't respond immediately, she'll start to whine and lunge at me as though she is about to attack. Finally, I'll get exasperated enough with her to just go out and do what I need to do. I cannot get dressed quickly enough for her. She will consistently press her cold, wet, nose into my bare skin as I try to put on my clothes. I can't stand it. As obedient as Emma is, she will not stop doing this no matter how many times I scold her for it. When I'm dressed and ready, Emma also feels that I need to be told in what direction I need to be going. She will herd me out the door, down the steps, and all the way to the barn. It drives me bonkers to have her constantly nudging me. She doesn't do this in the summer, so I think that all the extra layers make her think that I am too fat to walk on my own, and a little bit of nose up my rear is necessary.

When I entered the barn in the warmer months, the goats would bleat and yell like the place was on fire. They knew that milking time meant grain. Now when I walk in, they stare at me. They remain huddled together on the ground, chewing their cud. I call to them, and they continue to stare. I enter their pen and wave my arms a few times, and they look at me like I'm stupid. Then they pretend as though I'm not there, and start finding things to look at on the ceiling. Right now, only Maple is giving milk, so I'll go wrestle her to her feet and hook her up to a lead rope. Socks follows us for the sole purpose of harassing me. As I begin to milk Maple, Maple will slowly start to lean into me until she is literally laying in my lap. She doesn't do this to Shawn or Olivia. It's quite frustrating. She and I have both learned that if I try to push her off of me, I end up flat on my back in manure. I find it much less humorous than the goats do. So, as I precariously balance myself and 75 lb. Maple while I maintain a squat position, I milk as quickly as I can. Socks sneaks up and pulls my hat over my eyes, or gets a grip on my pants and yanks me over; sometimes she practices doing both in quick succession. I'm so glad that goats can't laugh, or I would probably lose it.

Goats are not very sanitary creatures. Every day there are several helpings of turds in their water bowl. In my bowl cleaning experience, I have come to understand that scarves- while necessary to keep me warm- can be used against me. One day (as I was still recovering from an assault from the goats which landed me on my back), as I bent over to clean the poopy dish, my scarf fell straight into the murky contents. My first instinct was to jerk it out, which resulted in frigid brown water spraying all over my face. As I spit and sputtered with my eyes closed, Socks grabbed my soiled scarf and gave it a good pull. I spilled the milk all over myself, which quickly froze to my jacket. After I gained my composure, I brought the offensive water bowl outside to scrub it out. I grumbled and cursed the whole time, and once I finished, I found that since the bottom of the bowl holds the heated coils, there was gooey dung all over the arm of my coat. I now had poop covering every square inch of my winter attire. When I finally got inside the house, I was greeted with, "Mommy, you smell!"

I have been doing everything I can to bribe Shawn and Olivia to do the chores, and luckily, I seldom have to milk anymore. They know that I'm not just paranoid- the goats really do have it out for me. If they had opposable thumbs, I doubt I would ever sleep again.

How Quaint

My friends really enjoy my status updates on Facebook, and my blog entries on here because they think that the things we do are hilarious, in a "Isn't that quaint?" sort of way. And I have to agree. There are times when I am doing something, and it makes me think, "Awww! This is cute." For example, I absolutely love our wood-burning stove. It sits in our cozy, orange dining room, and I decorated around it with antique pots, cookie cutters, and and a bundt pan. I am a terrible decorator, but am quite pleased with this particular corner of our home. On top of the stove, we have an old teapot, and a cast-iron chicken that holds water to help keep the humidity up. Sometimes I put a cinnamon stick in there, or dried marigolds from our garden as a potpourri. It's all very quaint looking. In the evenings, the girls and I will sit at the dining table by the fire, so we can keep warm while I read to them. We drink hot chocolate or tea and go on booky adventures. How quaint!

Of course, some of the not-so-quaint aspects of this are things like having to unload truckloads of wood into the barn. I unloaded a few cords and stacked them myself, which I was quite proud of (just ask my husband- he heard me boast about it for days), but it was certainly hard work. Even that has a little appeal, kind of like, "I'm a real pioneer now!" Another drawback to wood heat is, by the time I get up in the morning to get the girls ready for school, all that remains of our fire is a couple of glowing embers. Our master bedroom is the furthest room from the fire, and boy is it hard to convince myself to get out from under the covers! Very chilly. I now wear slippers at all times, which I swore I would never do. I mean, who am I, my mother?! (When I finally confessed to my mom that I wear slippers daily- just like she does- she replied by saying, "Turning out like your mother is a bitch, isn't it?"). If I start wearing long underwear all the time, I'll be mortified. Anyways, when I finally get brave enough to throw back my covers and hastily put on my slippers, I scurry out to the stove to stoke the coals and put more wood on. The cats and I glean as much heat as we can, then I go to wake the girls. As they groggily come out of their slumbers, I put their clothes over the chairs at the dining table so that they can be warmed by the growing fire. When the girls get out of bed, we all get dressed around our stove, and once again, I am thinking, "How quaint is this?!" It makes getting bundled up and heading out to the barn for an armload of wood worth it.

My friends and family still think that us milking goats is the funniest thing they have ever heard of. My relatives additionally expresses their amazement at our lifestyle, claiming that I was the last person that they ever expected to do this. This always surprises me, since I was a farm girl that has always loved animals and the barn. (In fifth grade, I begged my parents to let me live in a tee-pee and live off the land like an Indian. My dad had to be all logical and ask me how I would survive the winter with an allergy to the cold.) My family explained that this is what doesn't add up to them- I was the tomboy, the jock, the "won't take any crap from anybody" kind of girl. To them, all of this is about the most domestic lifestyle they can imagine. I guess I don't see it that way sometimes. When I'm struggling to load the truck with heavy hay bales or cleaning the goat pen out, it all seems very un-feminine and not domestic. Then again, I consistently wear aprons and my small income comes from making and selling goat milk soap and crafts. I own the traditional "woman's role" in the house and do all of the (exceptional) cooking, (indifferent) cleaning, and (satisfactory) mending. Maybe I can see what they're saying.

After a year of living in this house, so much has changed. It went from being the perfect set for a horror film, to becoming a home. I have learned how to can, make much of our own food, milk a goat and make stuff out of it, and how to get a fire going (which is not easy, trust me). Olivia and Genevieve have gone a year without television in our home, and Shawn and I have been a year without cell phones. All of us have experienced a shift in our senses of humor. Shawn thinks it's funny when our new milker, Maple, gives him kisses on his cheek while he milks her, yet she stabs me in the ribs with her horns when I milk her. Olivia thinks it's funny when Socks poops in a corner right after I finish cleaning their pen. I will say something to Socks to express my gratitude at her audacity, and she'll cock her head at me and lift her tail, letting another string of black goat pearls fall to the ground. Olivia nearly chokes, she laughs so hard. The other night, Olivia had a friend over for a sleepover. The little girl asked me what time it was, and I was busy making her a bracelet, so I murmured, "I don't know," distractedly. Her eyes grew round. "You guys don't even have clocks?!" she yelled in disbelief. This time I laughed so hard I nearly choked. I told her that we did have clocks- one is even digital! Our perspectives have changed so much, and the novelty is not wearing off. This lifestyle appeals to me even more than it did in my imagination, and I have a feeling we'll be homesteaders for quite some time. How quaint.

For more quaintness, be sure to check out my website! www.katiescustoms.com I will also be in my very first craft show in Rochester on Dec. 4th at Christ Lutheran Church from 8:00am-3:00pm. I would love to see you there!

Katie

Crazy Lane

The title says it all. I literally think I live on Crazy Lane. On the right we have a lady who gets into an argument with me, and yells. I can't even get angry with her, because she is so obviously unbalanced that it would be a waste of time. She says nonsensical things to the point where I'm pretty sure the topic of the conversation is going to move to how it's my fault that the dragons are extinct, and I should quit kidnapping all of the fairies. I excuse myself and leave, but she comes and pounds on the door for ten minutes straight with a bottle of booze in her hand, yelling that she "knows I'm in there!" until my mother-in-law comes to the rescue and shoos her away.

Across the street, I chat with Sixty-six years old (remember him?). Shawn says I have to use his name now, which is Al. I suppose since I would have to change his name every year- he would now by sixty seven- this is a good idea. Al is slightly off, but very sweet. He always wears his suspenders with his jeans, and no shirt or underwear. How do I know that Al doesn't wear underwear? Well, his suspenders don't do the job nearly as well as they should, and I am much more familiar with Al's aging body than I would like. As we chat, Al informs me that his girlfriend's son has moved in with them. That explained the glowering, middle aged man that lurks outside their house every day. Al continues on, telling me that the son was just released from prison. I try to hide my alarm with a polite, "Oh?" Al nods, and then tries to frown, which is difficult for him because his face is frozen in a permanent smile. It really is. "He's not havin' too good a time," he says conspiratorially. I raise my eyebrows, unsure of what to say. Al mimes drinking from a bottle, and I nod my understanding and sympathy. Inside, I'm a little nervous about an alcoholic ex-con moving in across the street. Nothing prepared me for what Al said next: he shook his head, and said, "You know, he gets bored, and he just kills people." Again, he shook his head, as if to say, "Kids these days." I nearly raised my eyebrows off my forehead this time. I stared at Al, waiting for him to say he was joking or at least exaggerating, but he suddenly brightens and starts talking about our goats. I tried to recover, and mumbled something about giving them a bar of the goat milk soap that I've made, as Al's girlfriend and her son pull in the driveway. How does one greet a killer? My "Etiquette for Dummies" book nevercovered this. I greeted them both and tried to seem far too sweet and friendly to kill. I was about to head back home to get the soap, and my dog Emma took a giant dump in their yard. I froze, hoping I hadn't just given the son a reason for my death. Luckily, the Mundane Murderer seemed to think it was funny. I scrambled across the street, with the girlfriend (Marie) calling after me, "Watch for cars, little girl!" Ironically, in that moment, I was quite pleased to be called a little girl. It has certainly been some time since I've heard that. I quickly returned with twobars of soap and a plastic bag for Emma's turds. When I finally got home for good, I locked the door.

On the left of us is a family dynamic that we can't quite figure out. Remember Genevieve's ogly lady with the gumby boobs? Her husband had a stroke one day, but since the cats had knocked the phone off the charger and the phone was dead, she just sat there. All day. Yes, she's in a wheelchair, but they have a ramp. Instead of wheeling outside and waving at cars or yelling for help (I most certainly would have heard her), she let her husband stroke out until a county helper showed up for their weekly appointment the next day and called an ambulance. Their daughter comes to visit quite a bit, and she really creeps Shawn out. She's obviously a little slow, but in a way I've never encountered before. I had two friends over one day, and I went in the house for a moment. While I was inside, she snuck up behind them as they sat in their lawn chairs, chatting. When the finally noticed her staring at them, they kind of freaked out. I suppose I understand. She invited us to a birthday party for someone we didn't know, and left. So did my friends. This lady used wander our backyard in the middle of the night until Shawn shined her with a flashlight, but I still have an ear cocked to the backyard while I sleep, and it doesn't take much to wake me up.

Needless to say, I have been a little on edge lately. Last night, I decided that I would like to relax. Shawn was asleep, so I took a book and a bag of Dill Pickle potato chips, and settled into the recliner by the window. The window which has no curtains. It was about 1:30am, and I was trying to figure out if it was possible to pickle one's own tongue. I could no longer feel it. Being that I was heavily distracted, I didn't notice the subtle noises outside the window. Then, I heard a thunk. My heart jumped, but I quickly told myself that it was probably the neighbor's cat sticking to our screen again. See, even the animals around here are completely nuts. Since it was dark, I couldn't see anything, so I leaned back in my chair and focused on breathing again. Then, there was a distinct tap-tap-tap on the window. My eyes bugged out. This was no cat. I scrambled to lean away from the window while desperately trying to see what was out there. I finally saw a pair of eyes. And, a pair of horns. The devil himself was knocking on my window. I was so scared, I couldn't even scream. As Satan craned his neck to get a better look at me and what I was doing, I realized that it was Nibbles. The goats had gotten out and decided to window peep. They were most interested in my bag of chips. I wanted to laugh, yet wanted to kill them. I went out to put them away, and saw that they had been having the most wonderful adventure out of their pen- they had torn open the garbage bag I had left by the door, and had also been playing with the stuffed animals that Olivia and Genevieve had left by their little pool. I couldn't stay angry when I saw the stuffed kitten left in front of the back door for me. The goats are so darn social, that they literally had tapped on the window to get my attention when they saw me through the glass. I put them back in their pen, and reinforced the hole they had made. Once back in the house, I double checked all the locks, and finally fell asleep.

My first 5K!

I can't believe it- I actually ran a 5K! (Well, mostly ran). I absolutely DESPISE running with a white-hot passion. However, I want to be a runner. Isn't that weird? My friend Kim, is totally my inspiration. This girl is the ONLY other female that understands the love of food that I have, because she shares it as well. We have been friend since kindergarten, and she has always been the most driven person I know. Kim does crazy things like full marathons, and triathelons. And wins. So imagine how I felt when she asked me to run the 5K that our hometown was putting on for the yearly festival. How does one say no to a mere 3 mile run when this girl runs almost 30 straight? You can't back out of that without looking like a TOTAL sissy. And I have been meaning to do it... so I said yes.

I longed for death about a block and a half into the run. And Kim, God bless her, stuck with me the whole way, even though she could have finished in half the time it took me. She kept saying things like, "Ok, we can walk now, but when we get to that sign, we need to start running again." I could barely hear her over my exploding lungs. Sometimes Kim would suggest outrageous things like, "Let's run until the curve in the road, then take a walk break." As much as I wanted to protest, I was breathing too hard to talk. I would whimper and try not to cry. The great thing is that she wasn't super chipper about it all; there was none of the annoying, "Only two more miles to go! Isn't that great?! You're doing swell!" She was simply supportive and consistent. My favorite memory of the run was toward the end; we could almost see the finish line- I had hoped to not take another walk break on the last stretch, but I simply could not run any further. I gasped, "I have to walk or I'll puke," and certainly expected some sympathy. Kim quickly retorted, "You can puke at the finish line, let's go!" I laughed on the inside.

At the finish line, there was a man giving people fives. He just stood there with his hand sticking out, letting people smack his hand on the way by. He was saying generic things like, "Good job," and "Way to go." However, when I lumbered across the finish line, his eyes bugged out and he said, "Are you ok?!" and reached out to support me in case I fell. Apparently it was quite obvious that I was struggling. I suppose my bright red face and lolling tongue gave that away. Still, I wanted to punch him.

What would I have done without Kim? I would have quit. I would have walked the majority of the race, and not felt bad about it at all. I would have thought, "At least I'm getting 3 miles of walking as exercise, that's great!" I probably would have been rather proud of myself just for showing up. Instead, as I gasped and heaved for breath after I crossed the finish line, trying not to vomit, I suddenly realized... "I DID IT! I actually DID IT!" It was totally Kim that kept me going- she is the reason that I can be so proud of myself and say that I accomplished this goal. Thank God for awesome friends!

Amish, Crunchy, Hippy

I've been called all of those names recently by my friends. I don't mind. April has already been a busy month for us. I took my craft business, "Katie's Customs" online to Facebook (more websites to follow), and have had some fun filling some orders. I really thought that my wood burnings would be the big sellers. I was hoping for people to have some sort of spiritual experience as they gazed upon my art. However, I have ended up selling a bunch of sock monkeys. It has been a humbling experience.

Also, after much research and contemplation, we decided to get ourselves a milking goat. I know, weird. But, I figured with all that I'm making and cooking myself, why not get my own milk, and make my own cheese, yogurt, and ice cream? It will cut back on grocery costs, and do a lot for the environment (no plastic milk jugs, yogurt containers, cheese wrappers, etc.) I really expected Shawn to say I was crazy and finally put his foot down, but to my surprise, he thought about it for a few weeks and decided that I was on to something. It's so awesome that we're totally on the same page when it comes to our new lifestyle.

Locating people with milking goats took me a very long time. I conversed with Mennonites and Amish, and it's not like I could just call the Amish folks up to ask them. I had to cruise around to each farm. No one was selling, but they would tell me about someone else that they thought might be, and I would drive to that person's farm. Finally, Uncle Harry got us a number off of Craigslist. We called and made the plans to pick up our new goat. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, I swear I heard the faint strum of banjos. It was horrifying. Trash and animals scurried away from the car as I slowly crept up the lane. There were geese, ducks, cows, pigs, horses, goats, dogs, sheep, and even a quail in a cage. Some random people wandered around. A Doberman mauled a baby goat in front of us, and no one seemed to care. Shawn and I looked at each other with wide eyes. It was too late to turn around, we had already been spotted. We cautiously opened our car doors and stepped gingerly in the mud. I instantly snapped at the girls that they were to stay near me at all times. A young man with some nasty teeth gave us a nod, so we headed in his direction. He led us to a tiny, rickety barn that I was afraid was going to fall in on our heads, so I changed my mind and told the girls to wait outside. Six goats stared back us once we entered. Only one milking nanny didn't have horns, and she seemed to be the only one that seemed not just social, but healthy. This place was festering with diseases. My common sense told me that I should turn and run before I caught something. Since we technically live in town, I knew we should get a companion for our milker. The last thing we want to do is piss off our neighbors because our lonely goat bleats for attention all night. The cheapest option for a companion is a young kid. We asked to see the kids, and we were brought to the garage (it just looked like several other decrepit buildings, but that's what the guy called it). As I walked in, my lungs withered. The stench of animal urine and feces was overwhelming. and my eyes burned as much as my lungs. When I could finally see, I realized that there were at least 20-30 little kids crowded into a pen. There were cages of puppies all over. I tried not to act appalled. Why? Because I was afraid. Olivia and Genevieve sprinted in, and instantly picked out the most unhealthy creature that I have ever seen. This baby was the smallest by far. It was not simply a runt, it was starved and so ill. Green gunk covered it's tiny face, coming from it's eyes, nose and mouth. It's eyes were also cloudy. This time my common sense screamed at me to not buy this wretch. Now, I was raised a farm girl. It's not like I'm someone from the big city that has never seen a sick animal before. I'm not a bleeding heart, and I like to think I'm logical. But it was so pathetic that I couldn't say no and leave it in this place. We paid for our social, seemingly healthy nanny, and the nasty little case of death clutched to Olivia's chest. The nanny hopped in the back of our station wagon, and we got the heck out of dodge. I have since called the police.

It has been a couple of days now. Quite frankly, I'm surprised the little baby (now named "Nibbles") has made it this far. Our milker, "Socks," has gotten the nose gunk too- big surprise. I went to the Fleet Supply and picked up antibiotics and a syringe, and have started them both on it. I think that's the only thing that has saved Nibbles' pathetic little life. We have since found out that contrary to what we were told, Nibbles had not been weaned and started on solid foods. She doesn't know how to eat yet. Socks doesn't give a whole lot for milk, but I milk her and feed it to Nibbles. I picked up some milk replacement, and feed Nibbles bottles of that as well. Aslo, I have realized that Nibbles in completely blind. Some research on the internet says that she could possibly regain her vision if her disease hasn't progressed too far. I don't think there is any hope for that, but she seems much happier now. In just a few days, she has gotten strong enough to walk! I have also de-liced the goats, since they were covered in the little buggers (thank God that they girls didn't catch it!) Today we experienced a dip in temperatures, to the point that even Socks was trembling a bit. I couldn't believe I was doing it, but I brought Nibbles into the house. She is in a cardboard box with a blanket, sitting next to the heating vent. I have gotten so soft! I'm not ashamed, though. This little creature was moments from death, and we have saved her. How many times has God looked upon us and seen something festering, pathetic, and blind?

Shawn and I have been tossing around the idea of having a baby, and we are discussing doing foster care. Seeing baby bottles in the dishwasher and mixing formula makes me chuckle. I seriously thought the next time I would be doing that would be because we had brought in a foster child. Here I am, feeding a goat. In the laundry room.

April has been so different than I had expected. I'm busy making bottles, squeezing teats, and mending fences. I'm preparing for our huge garden, and I got a wild hair up my rear and repainted most of the house. I'm sewing sock monkeys, and cramming stuffing into their crotches. Isn't it funny how our plans go in complete opposite directions of where we think they should be going, but it all works out in the end? I've seen the bumper sticker that says, "If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans." How true is that?!