say CHEEEEEEEESE!

Well, as per usual, a lot has gone on since last we spoke. I feel as if I've said this before, but as my mother once pointed out, "you miss a day in the life of you, you miss an entire chapter in your book." There is a lot of truth to that statement.

Both of the baby boy goats (bucklings) were sold pretty much immediately and are now living luxuriously pampered lives at their new abodes. I am told that 1 even sleeps in bed with it's owner's son. The only way the other can top that is if he were being paraded around in Paris Hilton's handbag. At any rate, they seem to both be doing amazingly well.

We made yet another new addition to our herd in the form of a new baby boy who will from here on out be everyone's "baby-daddy" with no need to ever go on Maury. Inbreeding was NEVER an option, so we "out sourced" lol. We bought another ADGA registered blue eyed, "CUTE-ling" from an amazing farm nearby. Apparently "Tucker"is from award winning pedigree milk lines, but they had me at buckling that isn't related to any of your goats. 

So, with both of Eve's babies out of the way, and Story and Page doing wonderfully... Let the milking commence! And it did. And whilst there have been trials and tribulations, I think I can confidently say that it is going well. The thing about Nigerian dwarf goats is, they are DWARF goats in every single aspect of the word. They do not produce an over abundance of milk. Why would they need to? Worst case scenario, they end up having to feed 2 (instead of 1) micro-babies. However, I am almost positive that the term, "Quality not Quantity" was invented by Nigerian Dwarf goat herders.

I have had the pleasure of tasting the milk "warm" meaning straight after the milking (no teat suckling for me) and then also after it has been cooled and allowed to cream. And, suddenly I hated the government. C'mon, not really! Well, maybe just a little. Because somehow we as a culture have been so heavily guarded against THIS. This very thing, that we don't even have a remote clue as to why, or what we're even missing. Ok, back to not being a hippie. I had milk, and it was now finally time to get to do what I was so most excited about. MAKING CHEESE!

And that is exactly what is happening RIGHT THIS SECOND. I am watching it form, ripen, this very instant, as we speak. To break it down a bit better, my 4 year old son and I milked our goats together (he's a pro) yesterday and today, AND, it went from a simple bucket, to a hanging cheese cloth in a matter of hours. Speaking only for me, WOW.

I think I am still in shock that not only do I own goats.. but, I have milk? And, then as it turns out that milk, it makes cheese.(right?) Like, Cheeeese. Cheese. Milk makes it. I have goats, they make milk, I help make cheese. Sorry. But I am still astoundedly in awe.

With that being said, I will of course undoubtedly keep you posted as to how this new venture goes. And, if all goes well, I just might try my hand at goat's milk ice cream...

Turning the "Page"

I was wrong. I have finally been molded and shaped into one of those that can admit it. Story did not in fact give birth that evening on my porch. She being the "sassy little..one" that she is, waited until the most inopportune time. On a mid-Monday. And when I say "mid", I really mean in the midst of  the chaos of everything else.

I had just stepped out the door after having gotten cleaned up to run so much needed errands when I heard my father in law, who happens to be visiting from Scotland, say in his thick burley scottish accent, " eh think the wee dull's about reedy" which when translated is, " I think the little doll is about ready". I glanced over, and I'll be darned if he wasn't right, thick accent aside. So I grabbed the towels and gloves and headed straight for her pen.

She wasn't in her manger as expected, in fact she was anywhere but. She started lying beside the fence nearest to the pen gate. Then as I approached, (she has always been the most skittish), she forced herself to move a few steps further. And then finally wedged herself underneath the feed trough, which the next contraction then forced her to nearly gut with as she shot straight up with her beautiful horns.

Her final choice of "birthing locations" was pressed right up against the pen gate. As if she were making an attempt at running away from it all. Poor girl, little did she know that the trauma would simply just go with. At any rate, all the signs were dramatically being displayed in full effect that let me know that birth was eminent. And so we wait.

She was extremely uncomfortable (as one could imagine) and there was nothing else that I could do. A half hour passed, and I began to grow a little concerned. The baby should be here by now. I started doing physical checks. Something just didn't "feel" right. I worried that the baby was backwards in the canal. Me, being me, I was hesitant to call the vet. For various reasons actually. The most prevalent being " I can handle this." I could see that Story was ready for that baby to be OUT! And started to push. But, it seemed almost to be in vain. 

This is when I decided a phone call to the vet might not hurt. The vet was busy, I mean, to their credit it was mid day after all. She assured me that she would "be in touch blah blah blah..." I tuned out because I was trying to be as tuned in to Story as possible. Something wasn't right. 

I began "helping" and could see a definite hoof. Which could be a good or bad thing depending upon just exactly WHICH hoof it was (front or back). Finally the hoof lead to a nose and cute little tongue, so I knew things were moving in the "right direction" both literally and figuratively. However, the more she pushed, the more apparent it became that there was only 1 hoof.

Maybe you do, maybe you don't know that goats make their debut in the style of "Superman" hooves out in front like they are flying out of that canal. This baby, had the right idea... but somehow got distracted along the way, more than likely saw something shiny... at any rate, it left me begging the question, "Where the F is the other hoof?'

Story clued me in that she too had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA where it was via the sounds (if you can call them that) that were now coming out of her mouth. Enter "vet call" #2. This one a tad bit more frantic. Which was met with assurance that they were "doing all they could". And, I knew they were, but jumpin' jehosephat! (least offensive phrase that still gets the point across and if not, at least admit you giggled) We are in a bind... more than quite literally.

Story did what she could. The one hoof and baby's head were taking in the world for the first time. However. The sac, the one that keeps them alive in the womb, had broken. So, while this would normally be exactly what you would want to be happening, for the baby to be happily breathing on its own, in our case, was a scene out of some gushy half-chick/half sci-fi movie. 

The baby was stuck. Trying to breath air for the first time and also "talking" from half within her mother's womb. Not only was it awkward, but frankly, it was downright gross. However, I knew that we now had only moments to make this work.

I won't lie. At one point I thought that we were going to lose them both. Story gave up on pushing. And her baby, then was slowly being strangled by the very thing that it had grown inside of. I HAD TO DO SOMETHING. And fast. After changing gloves for the millionth time,  I was too "sticky" to apply new ones as quick as I would like.. So, ungloved, nearly elbow deep, I dove in, in search of "that other hoof". 

I screamed, yelled, tried to "drill sergeant" poor Story into pushing. All to no avail. I was literally watching them both die. Until, she stood up. AND finally, gave me the much needed slack with which to dislodge the hoof from behind poor Story's hip bone. And, out the baby came. AMEN!

I was sure that at the very least, I had broken the baby's leg. The most concerning however, was what I could have internally inflicted upon poor Story. I called the vet again. They were already in route due to the nature of the previous call. SO, I will now just cut to the chase.

The baby, is amazingly fine. AND Story, was cleared just this morning for any internal tears.

So I will excitedly announce, It's a GIRL!!!" And her name is Page. Because, you can't have a Story without a Page. And this was most definitely a story....

I chose goats

I must love my goats. Story, our second goat went into labor this afternoon. The thing about goat "labor" is it can last up to 12 hours. And when I say "last" I mean, most of the time you find yourself sitting there and staring in hopeful anticipation at a goat's butt. Uneventful doesn't really begin to describe it. Never mind that I've been up since 4:30 a.m., my husband's father is in town from Scotland and we had DINNER PLANS. Sigh.

As to not disappoint my overly excited son, I sent them on their merry little way while I stayed behind on goat watch. Did I mention it's raining today? Has been since I knew for certain that Story was in actual labor. And the only reason that this fact is even worth mentioning is that Story decided to "weather the storm" on our porch. Now this is a normal occurrence for all the animals to do during this type of weather, however, not one of them has ever been in labor during such an occasion.

I'm not sure if you are aware, but it turns out that 99.99999% of pregnancies result in babies. Which at this late hour translates into that there is a 99.9999999% chance there will be a BABY, born-on-my- porch. Tonight. The plus sides are that I wont have to step out into utter darkness in a dead rain and march/ swim half way across the earth to the back pen to check on her progress every hour or so. The "minuses"? I will leave up to your own imaginations.

So. Here I sit, atop a backless breakfast bar stool. Waiting. While my family is happily devouring the semi-coursed meal at our favorite Japanese restaurant (SUSHIIIIIIII!!!) I did make them promise to bring some home, so besides the baby(s) I have that to look forward to.

As for now, things are quiet. I am afraid to move as she has discovered her super power, and it is ULTRA-sound like hearing. Also, she's super CLINGY and we have glass windows and doors which translates into "Story sees all". I'm walking on such pins and needles that I feel as if I am burglarizing my OWN HOME. Plus, it is very reminiscent of that feeling one gets, just after they have FINALLY laid their sleeping little bundle of joy to down for a much needed (by ALL parties involved) nap, and then attempting to quietly escape the prison nursery.

I'll admit it is half the reason why I am typing up this blog right now. I. Am. Terrified. Of. My. Goat. And thankfully this was within reach from my "frozen" statuesque like perch. I guess for multiple reasons, that sorta makes this like a "cry for help". HELP. And also, please bring sushi...

Everything but the hooves

I smell like goat. which by the way is just fine because they smell like the lovely cheese that they are famous for having a hand in making. It's been another LONG day. And it all started at about 7am this morning when I stepped out the front door to take Callie, our dog, on her morning walk. The goats are either usually perched expectantly at the door to their pen just waiting to be fed. Or, if for some reason their beauty sleep had gotten the best of them and I was up before they were, the second the door opened it was as if someone had cocked a loaded gun and both heads would SHOOT up in anticipation. But not this morning.

No, this morning was different. Story stood at attention at her usual post, however Eve was nowhere in site. This prompted an immediate red flag on a few different levels. First, we had closed off the adjoining gate between the first and second pen as to keep an eye on the "pregnancy" activities and the pens were not that big to begin with. Second, the only real place to "hide" was in the manger and from my vantage point, that looked Eve-less as well. I will admit a sickly feeling of panic slowly began to creep in. I made a bee-line for the pen.

And then I heard her. She made a noise that I simply just cannot describe but will try, a scream-grunt-gutteral growl? As I approached, I could just barely make out her outline on the other side of a self-inflicted nest/barricade of hay laying on her side, in the manger. I immediately dropped Callie's leash. I could tell from her body movements that she was straining. Heavily. With everything she had in her, she was pushing! Flustered a bit I knew that I had to stay calm. It was go time.

She looked so helpless. So confused. I had read that first time goat mommies have no idea that they are even pregnant. I was now SEEING that reality. She struggled, fidgeted, screamed (as goats do). I KNEW what I was looking for. Hooves and noses. Goats give birth much like we do, except hooves come out first followed by the snout and then the rest. But all I could see was what looked like a cloudy-water balloon. Finally. I could make out what appeared to be a nose (and a tongue) inside the "balloon", but where were the HOOVES!? Ok, I was panicking a bit, I'm not going to lie.  But I got a grip and wasn't about to let inexperience and procrastination allow me to lose another goat(s).

I called the vet's private cell and I unabashedly didn't even for a SECOND pause to consider the time. The vet sleepily answered and explained that she would have to "patch me through to blah blah blah..." MY GOAT IS BREACHED and you are giving me an answering service!? I thanked her and went back to it. Eve seemed in distress, even more than normal (as if I have any IDEA what NORMAL looked like) let's just call it "mother's intuition" she needed help and it was gonna have to be me.

I RACED inside and grabbed my husband's stash of medical gloves (he's good for that sorta stuff) raced back out and sure enough, she was still in the same situation she had been when I had left her side.  SO, I gloved up, and I swear I saw Story avert her eyes as I went "ALL IN". I found the hooves, lodged on either side as if it were chanting "hell no I wont go" and refusing to vacate the premises. And as gently as one can in this type of situation, I helped "guide" the little one safely out. And there it was, reality starring me in the face and "meeehing" if I've ever seen it. Eve grunted again, and before I could even change gloves, out came the twin. Unassisted THANK GOD.

Calm, clean and all settled in, Eve was now the proud momma of two adorable, healthy bucklings (baby boys). While, "Auntie Story", well that one's for another day...

playing for keeps?

I know that I have made mention of it in the past, how there is just something mezmerizingly magical and innocent about spending time out in the midst of the animals and watching as chickens eat right out of your hand (and maybe even nibble a finger or two in their excitement).

However, if I'm being honest, it didn't feel much like a farm after we lost Sadie. Im not sure why but when she died I suddenly felt phony. I found myself, when people asked about the farm and what all we had on it feeling somewhat inadequate and after counting in the 2 goats, I was quick to add (almost out of necessity) "we had 3, but we lost one". As if that made us somehow more legit. And, even if it DID, it didn't to me.

Sadie was my lead goat as I mentioned before. She was also the only goat that had been handled well before we got her,  and as such she allowed everyone who visited to pet and feed her without even giving it a second thought. When it was just she and I, we had a bond. She knew my voice and I knew when she was around due to the bell that adorned her neck. She would jump up on me like a dog might when their master returned home from work. For the same reasons even, both food and because she missed me. It was hard loosing her. In more ways than I realized at first.

She was sort of the true catalyst to this venture. If you visit the farm, you may take note of a silhouette outline of a goat atop our mailbox, painted black and wearing a bell. And while she wasn't necessarily by any means the "prettiest," she was mine, and I loved her. In fact, when she died, I didn't intentionally do so, but I looked on the other 2 with a mild disdain and bitterness. The 2 beautiful goats left behind, we had only REALLY gotten in order to make Sadie happy (and stop screaming). They were "Sadie's friends" and now she was gone and we were left with "them". Don't get me wrong. I loved them, as skittish and standoffish as they were. I guess I was just at a place of disbelief, and they happened to be in my line of sight.

Which brings us to the present. A few days ago, in a post entitled "wake up calls" I spoke about the abrupt and "all at once" realization that we apparently had 4 roosters. Some of you may remember that I  had sworn off ANY and ALL roosters from the get go due to the fact that I already had an extremely loud and sure fire random wake up call in the form of a 4 year old boy, who at least thankfully, my neighbors didn't also have to endure.

I now have a truth to admit. I... kinda, Love the..roosters. All of them.There. I said it ok. I mean what other animal quite literally SCREAMS farm? I love their distinctive calls. I love that they do them at sporadic intervals throughout the entire day and not just in the mornings. I love figuring out who is who and pin pointing exactly where it is they have positioned themselves in the yard. And more than just hearing them do it, I love to watch them put every ounce of all that they are into their crow. Now you may hear me (or my copycat son) yell, "shut it Brewster!" more often than not, (he's by far the loudest)  but it's actually a term of endearment. I love it! All of it! ALL 4 OF IT!

I have agonized over "what to do". They are barred rock and one americana, so all feathers no meat, I mean, you could maybe make a stew? Soup? At any rate, I am not willing to "partake" of them. AND, I am skeptical of anyone else whom I do not know (i.e. craigslist add)  adhering to this same standard. Which leaves me really only with 2 choices. Give them ONLY to someone I know and trust OR... keep them. All of them. (good thing my husband doesn't ever read my blog)

Brewster, I mean seriously? The kid played "taps" at Sadie's funeral, plus, he was outed long ago. Dixie. Dixie is the kind of rooster that when you think, "rooster" in general, his image more than likely comes to mind "standard"plus he's "slow and low" (the quietest).  Nugget. He's our black and white striped VERY identifiable rooster, who's feathers make my favorite earrings, plus, his name is NUGGET. And then there is sweet "Lacey. The youngest and to be quite frank, most beautiful rooster. He's still just a babe. And his attempts at crowing can be counted on one finger. Before I even knew he was a rooster, I had already pegged him as my favorite "little". How can I just hand him over after I've hand-fed him? It just doesn't seem like the right thing to do. (plus I don't wanna) They trust me. I care for them. I can't. Won't sell them short, or OUT.

I've been working daily with Eve (our tan and white goat). She used to be the absolute MOST skittish, now she's the only one who lets me love on her. The roosters, with each and every crow, had helped re-instill the excitement, wonder, HEART that Sadie had first given me.

And it's nice to be "back". (insert crow here)

"Wake up" calls...

Yesterday was one of those days that just began suddenly and abruptly without warning and I feel like, even though it's tomorrow, it still hasn't ended. Best way to sum it up in one word or less, Poop. I was awoken at an unholy hour by a very loud reminder that only a rooster can offer, exclaiming in his own special way that he was in fact awake and hungry and what did I plan to do about it. My son had been sick the night before, in my bed and my sleep pattern was still reeling in attempt to sort itself out from that sweet little middle of the night treat thus I did not feel like dealing with the very loud calls of Bess turned Brewster the rooster.

I lay in bed in protest for a minute, that is until Callie, our dog joined in the chorus. She had slept on the back porch by choice and apparently did not appreciate her early morning wake up call. And, in true form of the domino effect that was now unwinding just outside my bedroom window, the goats weighed in, letting me know that they too were hungry and in need of assistance. Farms are fun they said. (actually nobody said that but me) ANYWAY.

I did what any good farmer-mommy would do and sent my 4 year old(who was feeling much better) out into the yard to "free the masses". After all, it is educational and good for him right? I slowly got up and dressed lagging a little from the "sheet changing" extravaganza that had erupted from my son during the night. I guess that's what I get for letting him crawl into bed with me. At any rate, I was half way to the door when it flung open and my son exclaimed as he raced past me that "poop had snuck out of his butt!"

A puzzled scowl formed on my face as I turned and headed in his direction. However, the goats had spotted me from the back porch door and their wales were becoming increasingly louder and more desperate sounding. Hungry pregnant goats are no joke. My first priority was obviously tending to my son, and I was also curious as to what "snuck out" really boiled down to. Apparently his tummy decided to "flush" things out via a closer route. And I was the lucky one to get to play clean up. The thing about diarrhea is, it keeps coming. The thing about SUPER pregnant and SUPER hungry goats is, they keep "mehh'ing" and roosters, well they don't need an excuse to do what they do they just keep doing it.

And suddenly we were "those" neighbors. You know, the ones who blare their tastelessly loud music at ungodly hours. Except our "music" was a gaggle of unhappy animals who wouldn't know harmony if it punched them in the throat (which is coincidentally what I kinda felt like doing to the rooster at that moment).

I finished (for the time being anyway) with my son and raced outside to let the chickens out and hush the chaos by stuffing it with food. Pregnant goats eat A LOT. And "input" like cause and effect, will always lead to "output" in their case, lots and lots and lots of output. As the goats happily grazed I hurriedly made a pile and, with the help of a good thick pair of gloves began to mulch it through the yard. So there I am sprinkling goat poop like magical fairy dust throughout the lay of the land, when I heard the shrill loud demanding call, "MOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM WIPE MY BUTTTTTTTTT AGAINNNN"

When will the poop end? I threw down the goat's, to tend to my son's never ending supply AND I still had the joys of looking forward to delving into the not 1 but 2 chicken coops to do the same. Who knew that 75% if not more of farming AND motherhood would revolve around POOP!? And, while I was cleaning my son who greeted me in the "assumed position" pose as I walked through the doorway, he had the audacity to tell me that I SMELL! I got news for you pal... the only "roses" in here are the ones plastered on the friggin wall.

Needless to say by noon, my son had had at least 3 wardrobe changes and I was sweeping our porch and walkway free of chicken and goat "presents" for the umpteenth time. I still had a honey order to fill and drop by, not to mention a laundry list of household chores that I would now be doing intermittently if and when I was released from the prison known as our bathroom and the impossible "natural spring" that had suddenly burst forth from my child. I only got half of what I truly needed to get done before the sun went to sleep and finally so did I.

So today when the rooster called, I hopped up and like a woman on fire and raced out to sift through todays chores so that I could secure time to finish yesterdays. As I opened the coop, the POWs darted past me and the rooster crowed his freedom call. The thing was, the "call" was then echoed back...

I whirled around just in time to see Nugget offering HIS rebuttle. I stared in disbelief. 2. 2 roosters? How could this be? (no I do not need a lecture on the "birds and bees" of chicken eggs thank you) We weren't even supposed to have 1. Regardless of the discovery I had made, there were still things that needed to get done and I had to get my head back in the game which meant worrying about Nugget later. The bright side being that, at least I wouldn't have to change his name. To which Nugget then crowed again in agreement.

As I was bringing the last bucket full of water needed to fill the goat's trough,WTF. I will admit that I had had my suspicions about "her" as her tail feathers had begun to fountain over with large green plumes. Sigh. 3. And, as if to let me know that perhaps I shouldn't jump to any conclusions so soon, it happened. DIXIE made a retort in the form of a crow. It felt as if the chickens had plotted against me and bided their time.
a weaker "crow" sounded from the tree line to my left. And, seeing as I could see all of the "bigs" (my soon to be laying chickens) I turned in time to catch Lacey (one of the littles) sounding off.4. 4 roosters. 3 of which were supposed to be laying eggs like ANY DAY NOW. Leaving me with only 2 possible hens who were even close to being ready and 3 who have a while yet to go on that journey. So now I am left with the predicament of just what to do. I mean, what does one do with 4 roosters exactly?

Anyone feel like "chicken tonight?" :(

plastic makes perfect

Sometimes. Sometimes, I'm just a mother. Today was one of THOSE days. It was cold. No, I mean exceptionally so, especially for our little slice of heaven here in the "Sunshine state". I am a runner first and foremost, but I couple it with some solid bike riding and swimming when I can. Did I mention it's cold? Kinda hard to accomplish any of that when it's in the 40's (and you have a 4 yr old in tow). That is unless you are INdoors.

In the throws of starting a farm, we made a couple of "cuts". #1. Was lawn service. We have livestock, it's a no brainer. #2, Cable TV. Because who's got time? #3 Gym membership. Once again, who's got time? To be honest, I DO have time, however, I prefer old-schooling it and running, biking or WHATEVER it is, doing SO outdoors. Hey, don't get me wrong, while looking directly into the eyes of the sweaty 75 year old man virtually on his death bed, yet attempting to do the exact same thing that you are doing is extremely empowering (who EVER decided that ANY sports equipment should face one another hates themselves and life in general) It's just not for me. The repetitive droning of the Dread, Treadmill, is just not, at least for me, something I wake up excited about.

Anyway, bringing this full circle and back to those horrid (for Florida) temperatures. I just, could not in good conscience take my son on a 5 mile run-trek into the beach head-wind no matter how much "warmth" I strapped to his little body. I had to surrender. I had to, for his safety (and MY sanity) head back to the gym.

My son, due to his no fear personality (no, seriously, this kid has NO FEAR almost to the point of stupid) is sort of a "celebrity" there. So, walking through the doors after it's been a while is kinda magical. We were warmly welcomed back as I ushered him to his most FAVORITE place ever. The "playroom". The thing about the playroom is, that for him it's not the toys that hold his interest. It's the amazing ladies who run it. Ms. Twinkle and Ms. Shannelle. (stop trying to auto correct me) They LOVE him and in turn, he adores them.

It was like a talk-show-host approved family reunion today. Big ole bear hugs all around and perhaps a few unspoken tears shed, it was nice to be "home". Of course the, "where have you been's", followed by the "WAIT what's?" were exchanged. And, after all stories became "up to date", and my repetetive 5 miler was completed,  before even finishing saying our goodbyes, a certain "little" someone had found something "shinier" and was off and running. They seemed concerned, as well they should be, it's what we pay for... however, I was less enthused. As his mother, for... ALL HIS LIFE, I knew exactly where he was heading. You see, there's this popsicle freezer near the front door, it's a sure thing every time. And there he was, already having picked out and now attempting to open a strawberry popsicle. I was once again suckered into the bribe and let him have it. We had errands to run since we were in town anyway, so if it helped that pill go down just a little smoother, so be it.

First stop, Walmart. Now usually my son either leaves what's left of the sticky slobbery mess- on- a- stick in his cup holder OR he asks, "mommy could you hold this?" which really translates into throw it away for me. However, this time he actually announced that the "ice stick" would be accompanying him into the store. I was a little surprised, but also just thankful that I wasn't going to have to "hold it". About 2 minutes into our excursion, he lost interest and resorted to that old ploy. I declined and said that if he wanted it anymore at all, then he would just have to hold onto it himself and finish it. To which he agreed to my amazement. And only seconds later handed me the popsicle-less stick.

All was right with the world... until my son burped. Now don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with burping especially if you're polite about it and say excuse me, which he did. It wasn't his manners that raised the red flag. It was the watery-over full sound that made me regret not taking it away when I had the chance. He seemed ok afterwards so we proceeded further and further into the maze of the chaotic discount forrest that is Walmart.

I was perusing the canning jars when I heard it. "Mommy, I feel like I have to throw up." NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I knew it! I should have listened to that motherly gut-wrenching instinct when the "watery burp" had erupted which screamed at me to get within a 3 foot radius of the nearest bathroom ASAP. However, the sinister evil selfish twin of that instinct won the battle because canning jars just so happened to be on the way. I prodded at him a little, trying to make him (and myself) believe that he didn't really need to throw up, but those efforts were immediately thwarted by the sudden and all too familiar dry heave reaction he countered with.

I quickly glanced at my surroundings, for something, anything with which to catch the inevitable looming spewage. Canning jars in a sealed box were a no-go, however darting my eyes to the left, it just so happened that the canning supply aisle was parallel to the trash bin aisle! I grabbed the first one without a lid that I saw, no matter how oversized and bright cherry obvious red it was, and just in time too. Out it came. In all its liquidy strawberry smelling glory. And I caught every last drop in the ginormous red bin.

He exclaimed that he felt "much better!" So, like a good mother on a mission would, we paraded the trash can through the store grabbing the last item on our list on the way to the front and the checkout counter. I then regaled the less than amused cashier of the woeful tale assuring her that I the heroine, had thoughtfully grabbed this massive red bin and struggled to not let so much as a single drop touch their precious floor ,while she shriveled back in recoil as if it were nuclear waste sure to kill us all and called for "maintenance". Not even so much as a half hearted thank you? C'mon!

When maintenance finally arrived, gloved up and ready, she was glancing around at the floor (obviously looking for a puddle or some sort of mess) to which I then quickly chimed in that I had caught all of the material needing to be "maintained" in this red plastic bin. She was thrilled! "Thank you so much for not getting it all over the floor!" she exclaimed. Finally! Vindication!

We strolled out of the store, heads held high, basking in the moment, that is until my son asked why it was that he couldn't have a doughnut....