Sleeping Like a Baby...

In the midst of a diabolical winter, suddenly we were graced with a day of sunshine and temperatures approaching fifty degrees. While Emily and I gave the goats much-needed baths, my husband shoveled all the snow off the deck. Restricted for several months to a narrow strip of space under the eaves, Em and Ellie were delighted at this new expanse of wood and the fun clattering sound made by their hooves as they ran across the boards. Finally, exhausted, they collapsed in the sun for a nap. Sometimes, conditions are just perfect for sleeping...

Eighteen years ago, I had almost forgotten what sleep was. After several months in the hospital following their premature birth, our twin daughters had finally come home, bringing with them nonstop chaos. Gone were uninterrupted sleep, regular meals and any hint of sanity. When my frazzled husband mentioned that our church deacons wanted to visit one evening, I nearly choked on my twice-reheated pizza. The living room was littered with dirty diapers, congealed baby spit-up and heaps of laundry, and I was wearing the same clothes I'd slept in the night before (not that we really got more than an hour of sleep at a time). Entertain company tonight? Sure, why not?

Our guests arrived around 7 pm and graciously offered to feed the screamers, a brave gesture as the babies weighed a mere four pounds each and were tethered to heart monitors balanced on the coffee table. Bottles downed, the contented infants snuggled in their arms, our guests asked, "How long will they sleep?"

"No way to tell," I replied. "although they always sleep better when they're held."  What on earth do we talk about now? Should I offer them a snack - cold pizza, anyone? But there is wisdom in experience, and as parents themselves (their children grown) and no doubt prodded by our disheveled and bleary appearance, this kind couple had other ideas. "Why don't you both go take a nap," Sharon suggested. "We'll just hold the babies for an hour or two."

Oh no, I couldn't...but a whole hour! Or two! All at one time! Amidst my feeble protests I realized Mike was headed back the hallway - no need to ask him twice. If you insist... Mike was already snoring when my head hit the pillow. That's all I remember.

Confused to be wakened by my bladder instead of wailing infants, I pushed aside the covers and peered at the clock in the dark bedroom. WHAT??? Just minutes shy of midnight?? I shook Mike in panic. "Did you get up?" But his inarticulate grunt belied the truth as I stumbled into the living room - we had slept for nearly five hours as Sharon and Calvin, unable to move off the couch because of the heart monitor cords, held our babies, who were just beginning to fuss. Just like a fabulous gourmet meal or a film that grips your soul, I have never forgotten that sleep, a precious gift that rejuvenated me and got me through the worst of those earliest days.

Shhhhh...use the other door. We don't want to wake the goats!

Driveway races, Sochi-style

Previously a welcoming, tree-lined path with gentle curves and a small sloping hill, our driveway this winter has mutated into a treacherous snare frought with such hazards as invisible, impenetrable ice chunks and mammoth drifts capable of swallowing both humans and automobiles. Accordingly, we have renamed it the "Driveway of Death" and posted a sign (in the interest of public safety) -"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" (Dante, anyone?); "Abandoned vehicles may be claimed in the spring." Last week I had been hopeful about adding to our snowblower fund after initiating negotiations to lease the driveway as a training run for the Olympic bobsled team, but the deal fell through after it was deemed too hazardous a run for the athletes.

Winters like this breed discouragement and despair, and it has taken a small black goat (who didn't even see Broadway's 42nd Street but surely has heard us singing the lyrics) to remind me to look for "the sunny side in every situation." Instead of moping that he is stuck in the shed all day again with his itchy brother and hasn't seen a blade of grass in months, Emerson invented a fun activity to occupy his days - The Running Game. I have been letting the goats roam the driveway most days while I shovel, since as a narrow channel with cavernous white walls it affords no escape, not even at the end, usually, as the snowplows keep sealing it shut. Emerson stands alert at one end until I give him a signal (clap, yell, anything) and then he hurtles off at breakneck speed to the other end, where he stops to dance around upright on his back legs before the return dash. Somehow this repetitive activity gives him immense pleasure, although when I tried it, I ended up with a bruised hip and a knee brace, so now Elliot and I just watch and cheer him on. This looks like his best run yet, Bob, there's the time to beat, and it's Emerson for the gold! And the crowd goes wild; there's a goat on the podium!

As my sympathetic aunt in Florida reminded me yesterday, there are only 29 days until spring. Maybe I'll miss all the snow after it melts...maybe not.

Begins with "S" and ends with "W" - my new four-letter word

I was a girl on a mission. We had plenty of all the blizzard essentials - batteries, bottled water, salt, kitty litter, chocolate...with one exception. Since the last ice storm we have been down to only two working snow shovels. Four family members, two shovels, you do the math. Don't for a moment think I would be the person inside watching TV bemoaning my lack of a snow-removal implement...and the storm that crippled the south was headed our way.

After being laughed at by clerks at four local establishments, I finally found one lone plastic shovel hidden in the far corner of an auto parts store. Triumphantly waltzing it to the checkout, I encountered a burly-looking, heavily-tattooed guy at least twice my size. "Hey!" he exclaimed, planting himself directly in front of me, "Where'd you find that?"

I am not proud of this, but I knew if it came to a struggle for the shovel I'd have no chance. Mutely I pointed him to the back corner, then dashed up front, threw some cash on the counter and escaped to my car before he could discover my deception. Victory was mine!

That evening, with twelve of the expected twenty inches already on the ground, my husband came home from work. Frowning, he asked (in his "criticism-cleverly-disguised-as-a-question" voice), "What made you decide to get another shovel?"

Oh, I don't know, maybe these blasted seven-foot high mounds of white stuff and another major storm forecast for the weekend and the fact that our driveway is a million miles long and I don't want to have to clear it with a spatula...("screaming-cleverly-disguised-as-screaming" voice)

My back was in spasms, my fingers were blue and I had frozen ice chunks in my hair, but going inside was a distant future because the goats had gotten into the garage, leaving an Armageddon of poop everywhere, knocking over two water buckets and a trash can as well as breaking the sensor for the garage door opener. Elliot's shirt was soaking wet and their hay rack was empty. I would have called the girls to help, but they were still trying to dig out the mailbox, which had completely disappeared after the latest snowplow drive-by. Trading my shovel for a broom, I silently asked myself the question nobody else ever does...("insanity-cleverly-disguised-as-my-life" voice) What, what, what ever made me decide to get goats?

Wardrobe Malfunctions

Twins, my teenage daughters are accustomed to borrowing each others' clothing, as in "Do you mind if I wear your red miniskirt to the dance this weekend?" However, while it may be socially acceptable to share clothes with your sister, it's really unfortunate to have to share clothing with your goat. 

Because of Elliot's annoying propensity to twist his head around and bite holes in his back, he now wears a shirt all the time. It's difficult to find clothes that both fit and flatter him, and most of the shirts require some modification (like cutting away half the front so as not to impede his urinary flow.) I look for castoffs from friends and discount store specials, but the clothes that seem to fit him best come from my daughters' closet. Picture this tug-of-war over a hot pink camisole in the hallway -

 "Mom! You can't take that! Put it back!!" 
"But you never wear it! All his other shirts are in the wash."
"It's not fair! Why can't he share clothes with Dad?"

Last weekend, a couple we know only casually dropped by for a visit. Mike and I had taken the goats out for a walk in the field, but at the sight of an unfamiliar vehicle ("We could jump on that!"), the goats dashed back to the driveway. I can only imagine what our guests thought as I chased the goats, shrieking "Not the car! Not the car!" I caught my breath, we chatted politely, and they left after a few minutes. As I corralled the meandering goats and locked them in their pen, I realized what had been bothering me. I called to Mike, "Did they ask about Elliot's outfit?" Shrugging, he answered, "No, it never came up. We were talking about cars."

Great. They were probably too polite to ask why my goat was dressed in a bright yellow flowered tank top. (Most of his wardrobe comes from the girls' closet, after all.) I'm not sure which option is scarier - that one more family now considers me a lunatic, or that they already thought that and were therefore not at all surprised to see that I cross-dress a goat. I guess you can either have an intact reputation, or you can have goats. Not both.

Many Uses for a Phone Book

Last week my daughter was annoyed because a friend did not instantly return a Facebook message about the meeting time for a school event. Since she did not know his cell phone number, I suggested she simply call his home number, then pulled out the phone book to look it up. My daughter peered dubiously at the hefty yellow volume and asked, "Do those things even still work?"

Well, only if the Pony Express is busy...

This is the time of year when all the new phone books arrive on my porch. Since I was running low on newspaper to insulate under the interlocking rubber mats in the goat shed, I decided to use sections of the old phone books instead. Distracting the goats with a tub of hay in the driveway, I replaced the soiled newspaper with thick sections of the old books, then snapped the mats back in place like giant puzzle pieces, pleased with my work.

The sight that greeted me next morning set my heart racing. What animal could have done this?? Mountain lion? Bear? In the shed, all the mats had been pried apart, chunks of phone books strewn everywhere. It looked like a bomb had exploded. The water bowl was spilled over sodden hay, goats nowhere to be seen. Mentally scouting what predator could have done this and then carried off a pair of eighty-pound goats, I searched for bloodstains - but found only a trail of ripped  yellow paper leading behind the shed.There were my goats, blissfully chewing up more pages. Thanks, Mom, for leaving this delicious snack under our mats! It was so fun digging it out! Stupid goats.

Now you know. Like the high-pitched whistles only dogs can hear, apparently the paper in phone books contains a substance only goats can smell, even hidden under thick rubber mats, and also quite tantalizing to caprine taste buds. Leaving two satisfied goats amidst the mess, I went out to buy a few newspapers...