I’ve been feeling a lot of nostalgia lately.
My kids are suddenly helpful and independent so much of the time that parenting abruptly feels like a totally different job.
It is utterly delightful to see them coming into their own, and, of course, I’m daily flooded with the bittersweetness that accompanies their growing up.
I wrote the following exactly 10 years ago today, the first spring I went from being a “lamb mom” to a more traditional shepherd. Incidentally, but probably not accidentally, that shift coincided with my first pregnancy. What an education I’ve received since then.
I’ve learned so much from my flock, including how to move (somewhat) gracefully from the tiny-babies-who-need-constant-care stage to the still important but much less physically demanding role of background support person.
I woke up this morning and shuffled out of bed to find a sunlit kitchen full of spring. Last night it rained, and the raindrops turned to frost, but this morning they were raindrops once again, hanging from the eaves of the house and the metal garden gate.
Not typical March weather here on the tundra, but I’ll take it.
On a ranch, March is often the month of babies, though they don’t always get to be born in such balmy circumstances.
We had our first calf a few days ago, and another set of lamb twins born yesterday, just after dawn.
This time — that is sometimes spring, and sometimes winter — is when I start acquiring babies. The first March after I moved here, it was an incubator’s worth of baby chicks. The second, two lambs named Pearl and Theo. The third spring, it was a whole flock of bottle babies that needed A LOT of care.
Spring became a time of heat lamps and straw bale bedding, of milk powder and crusty bottles soaking in the sink, of worry and of wonder. I didn’t mind, not one bit.
This year it is different. It is an adjustment to bring a bit of grain to a mama tired from her labor and to hold her babies while she crunches through the welcome treat. And then … that’s it. I go out to check on the new little families and find I am superfluous. They don’t need me, they are doing just fine.
This morning, I went out into the glorious heat of the bright sun and sat for a while with a lamb on my lap, my back against the shining tin barn, both of us basking in the rays. I scratched his chin and he closed his eyes and smiled. Perched on the nearby fence, a host of sparrows chatted and the chickens bustled past, looking for something new to scratch.
What are the roots of joy? Sometimes they are found in work well done; sometimes in doing no work at all but simply being part of the blissful buzz of early spring. I feel lucky that my grown-up ewes are now doing the work of mothering, while I get to play the shepherd version of grandma.
It is late afternoon now. I am sitting, fingers tapping against the computer keys, while the first flies strike and zip at the window panes. The sun is getting low, but I can still feel its heat on my right cheek. Outside the world looks brown and a bit damp and very still.
I have to finish writing, but I am itching to waddle outside (yes, I have reached the waddling stage of pregnancy, much to my chagrin) with a sheath of dried alfalfa flowers as an offering and settle back down beside the flock for some more snuggling. They may not need me, but they seem to like having me around.
I will listen to the soft baby sighs the lambs make as they nestle into sleep, and I will watch the way dusk settles around us, all wispy in lavender and rose. My own baby will be snuggled in my lap soon, taking his turn to greet the dawn and the dusk of a beautiful day.
