Kids & Kids: Grandkids, Goat Chaos, and Farm Fresh Fun

We had a houseful this weekend—two-legged kids and four-legged ones, and honestly, I’m not sure which were louder. Between the laughter, the bleating, and the barking, it sounded like a petting zoo and a playground had collided in the middle of my barn.

The grandkids came to visit, which meant Roxie, our English Shepherd, was in full-blown doggy heaven. She had someone (actually several someones) to throw her toys over and over and over again until I’m pretty sure she collapsed that night with a squeaky hedgehog under one paw and a look of blissful exhaustion on her face. I swear, that dog smiled in her sleep.

Meanwhile, I had a whole crew of enthusiastic helpers down in the barn, bottle-feeding a few goat kids whose mama was less than thrilled with them. It was pure, adorable chaos: little hands holding little bottles for little goats with little tails wagging like metronomes on espresso. The grandkids giggled every time the baby goats butted at the bottles or bleated impatiently, and I couldn’t help laughing right along with them. There’s just something about kids (of both kinds) that makes the whole place come alive.

And yes, before you say it—I know the barn’s a mess. But in our defense, the kids—both the human and goat varieties—were in the workshop area, which also doubles as a storage space for tools, buckets, extension cords, tractor parts, chicken feeders, and approximately eleven different kinds of twine that we “might need someday.” So before anyone gets judgy, just squint a little and focus on the cuteness, not the clutter.

Farm fresh doesn’t always smell like flowers, folks. Sometimes it smells like hay, warm milk, damp boots, and whatever mystery item the dog rolled in before coming inside. But if you ask me, that’s the scent of a good day—one full of laughter, love, and just the right amount of barnyard chaos.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Kids Are All Right: 12-Year-Old’s Courageous Pro-Life Speech

This was posted on Bethany's blog and I definitely think it's worth passing on. Awesome message! I am always impressed when a young person has the courage to stand up for what's right.

THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT
12-year-old steals day with pro-life speech
Teachers threaten disqualification, but girl chooses to speak against abortion
Posted: February 16, 2009
8:36 pm Eastern

By Chelsea Schilling
© 2009 WorldNetDaily

Despite facing threats of disqualification, a 12-year-old girl took first place in a speech contest when she eloquently argued for the rights of unborn children – after an offended judge quit.

"What if I told you that right now, someone was choosing if you were going to live or die?" the seventh-grader begins in a video recording of her speech on YouTube. "What if I told you that this choice wasn't based on what you could or couldn't do, what you'd done in the past or what you would do in the future? And what if I told you, you could do nothing about it?"

The girl, a student at a Toronto school identified only as "Lia," continued:

"Fellow students and teachers, thousands of children are right now in that very situation. Someone is choosing without even knowing them whether they are going to live or die.

"That someone is their mother. And that choice is abortion."



But what made the 12-year-old choose to speak about abortion?

"It was really a family thing," her mother explained on the blog Moral Outcry. "I saw Lou [Engle] speak at a conference several years ago. I came back to my family with the Life Bands, and we all wore them, made our covenant, and prayed the prayer for abortion to end. … We were invited to participate in a 'Life Tape Siege.' Once my kids heard of this invitation, they all agreed: 'We have to do that!' Since then, Lia's passion for seeing abortion end has continued."

Despite Lia's enthusiasm for her topic, her teacher "strongly encouraged" her to select a different one for her class presentation or she would be considered ineligible for an upcoming speech contest.

"[S]everal teachers discouraged her from picking the topic of abortion; she was told it was 'too big,' 'too mature' and 'too controversial,'" her mother wrote. "She was also told that if she went ahead with that topic, she would not be allowed to continue on in the speech competition."

Lia's mother continued, "Initially, I tried helping her find other topics to speak on, but, in the end, she was adamant. She just felt she wanted to continue with the topic of abortion. So she forfeited her chance to compete in order to speak on something she was passionate about."

Lia's teacher was so impressed by the speech that she allowed her student to advance as the winner. Lia presented her speech to judges in front of her entire school on Feb. 10.

The school principal and teachers called Lia's presentation the "obvious winner" – but the judges suddenly disqualified her the following day "because of the topic and her position on abortion," her mother said.

Lia's father later revealed that the judges had a "big disagreement." One was offended by the speech and voluntarily stepped down while the others reversed their earlier decision – declaring her the winner.

Now Lia plans to take her message of life to a regional speech competition, and more than 130,000 visitors have viewed her presentation online.

"Why do we think that just because a fetus can't talk or do what we do, it isn't a human being yet?" She asks in the video. "Some babies are born after only five months. Is this baby not human?

"We would never say that. Yet abortions are performed on 5-month-old fetuses all the time. Or do we only call them humans if they're wanted?"

She continues, "No, fetuses are definitely humans – knit together in their mother's womb by their wonderful Creator who knows them all by name."

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Testing: DH, Darling Husband—or Dumb Husband?

I sent Jim a test post to see if he could fix the problem at work loading the blog. He works in the maintenance department, which means he can repair just about anything with a wrench, a wire, or sheer determination. Computers, however, are another beast entirely. They don’t make satisfying clanking noises when you hit them, and duct tape doesn’t seem to help much.

When he first told me the blog wouldn’t load at his office, I pictured him sitting there, surrounded by tools, glaring at the screen like it was a piece of machinery that refused to cooperate. Somewhere between reboot number three and muttering under his breath, I’m sure the other guys in the shop started giving him a wide berth. There’s nothing scarier than a man who can fix a hydraulic pump but can’t get a website to open.

When I wrote that this was a “test for DH,” he read it later and asked, “What does DH stand for?” I told him it means Darling Husband. Without missing a beat, he smirked and said, “Are you sure it’s not Dumb Husband?” That’s one of the things I love about him—he doesn’t take himself too seriously. Even when the internet conspires against him, he still finds a way to make me laugh.

The best part? He did fix it. Somehow, between maintenance calls and troubleshooting equipment, he wrestled the computer into submission. He might not know what he did, but by golly, it worked. He texted me later, proud as a peacock, letting me know the blog was finally loading.

So yes, that was just a test post—but this is a little tribute to my DH: Darling, Determined, Handy-as-They-Come Husband. The man can fix anything—from a busted pipe to a stubborn webpage—given enough time.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Our American Form of Goverment: A Must-See Video

If you’ve ever wondered why our Founding Fathers were so deliberate about what kind of government they created, “The American Form of Government” explains it better than most high school textbooks ever did. In just a few minutes, it lays out the difference between a democracy, a republic, a monarchy, and all the other “-ocracies” and “-archies” people like to throw around without really knowing what they mean.

The part that hits home is the reminder that America is not a pure democracy — and wasn’t meant to be. In a democracy, majority rules, plain and simple. But as the video points out, that can be a dangerous thing when the “majority” decides to take away someone else’s rights. The Founders had seen that movie before, and they didn’t like the ending.

So they built a constitutional republic — a system where laws, not emotions, rule the day. The Constitution protects the rights of all citizens, even when they’re outnumbered. It’s the difference between mob rule and moral rule.

Watching it, I couldn’t help but think how easily we toss around the word “democracy” like it’s the gold standard of freedom. But real freedom is a lot sturdier than that. It’s structured. It’s disciplined. It’s protected by boundaries written in ink and sealed with sacrifice.

This video ought to be required viewing for every American, young or old. It’s a good reminder that our system wasn’t an accident — it was built with wisdom, caution, and an understanding of human nature that still applies today.

The Founders didn’t trust government blindly — and neither should we.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Good Night: Bottle Babies, a Borrowed Crate, and a Retired Mom

Well, it’s official: I’ve got bottle babies. Because apparently, Genevieve has filed for early retirement—with benefits.

She gave motherhood the old college try for, oh, maybe eighteen hours. Thought it was kind of neat at first—tiny creatures that looked like her, smelled vaguely of warm milk, and made cute noises. Adorable, right? But by day two she’d learned the dark truth: they are either starving, snuggling, or springing around like caffeinated popcorn kernels in a hot skillet. No breaks. No boundaries. No bathroom privacy.

So this morning, Genevieve marched up to the gate, looked me dead in the eye, and said, in no uncertain terms, “You. With the thumbs. Get me out of here.” I obliged. She is now back in the barn with her adult friends, blissfully unbothered and refusing to acknowledge she ever had children. If she could’ve slammed a door behind her, she would have. I’m pretty sure I heard humming.

Meanwhile, I’ve got two pint-sized squatters living in Roxie’s dog crate in the house, which they’ve converted into a goat Airbnb. They are tucked in, warm, and sleeping like they paid rent. And Roxie? Equal parts fascinated and insulted. She keeps checking on them like a worried big sister but cannot understand why they won’t play tag or let her into her crate. I told her, “No hooves, no crate privileges.” She’s currently pouting and giving me side-eye from the couch.

Bottle-baby life is glamorous in the same way laundry is glamorous. Every three hours the alarm goes off, I warm milk, label bottles like a short-order diner, and attempt to persuade tiny house invaders to latch without chewing the nipple off. There’s always one who gulps like it’s a timed event and one who negotiates terms—two sips, a cuddle, a stretch, and then perhaps she’ll consider continuing. We burp (don’t laugh, it helps), wipe milk beards, and swap towels. By the time I finish the feeding, it’s almost time to start the next one.

On the bright side, they bleat like little squeaky hinges and curl up in a heap the size of a bread box, which almost makes up for the dishes, the laundry, and the faint aroma of Eau de Barn wafting through the kitchen. Almost.

So: two baby goats, one displaced dog, and one very relieved doe pretending she’s single and child-free. Good night from the madhouse. Wake me when they’re weaned—or when Roxie forgives me, whichever comes first.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Sky Angel Cowboy: A Young Man’s Call That Touched the World

Every once in a while, something comes along that stops you in your tracks and reminds you what really matters. The “Sky Angel Cowboy” video does exactly that. It’s a recording of a Logan Henderson, a young boy who called in to a Christian radio station to talk about God — and in just a few short minutes, he delivers a message that humbles even the most seasoned believers.

His voice is young, gentle, and full of innocence, but what he says carries the kind of truth that only comes from a heart completely open to faith. He talks about losing his little calf and how his dad had to put it down, and through his tears he compares it to what God must have felt when Jesus died for us. There’s no fancy theology, no big words — just a child’s pure understanding of love and sacrifice.

It’s one of those moments where you realize how easily we complicate things that are actually simple. Faith doesn’t have to be polished or poetic. Sometimes the truest words come from someone small enough to still believe without question.

I’ve heard a lot of sermons in my day, but few have hit me like Logan’s voice. It’s a reminder that God doesn’t just speak through pulpits and choirs — sometimes He uses a child’s heartbreak to remind the rest of us what grace really looks like.

If you haven’t seen the Sky Angel Cowboy video, take a few minutes and do it. And maybe keep a tissue handy. It’s a powerful reminder that faith isn’t complicated, love isn’t logical, and even the smallest voices can carry the biggest truth.

Sometimes all it takes is one little cowboy to point us back to heaven.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Genevieve's Maternity Leave: Twins Arrive, Mom Retires in 18 Hours

Genevieve, one of our high-maintenance Nubian does (I say that with love and eye bags), has been very pregnant for what feels like the last twelve years. According to the calendar, she was due any day. According to her behavior—dramatic sighing, shifting around like she couldn't get comfortable in her own skin, and throwing side-eye at anyone who asked how she was feeling—she was due yesterday, last week, and also somehow last month.

So I started the drill. For the last two days and nights, I’ve been checking on her every two hours. Yes, even at night. Yes, even when it was 10 degrees and the wind was coming in sideways. I have personally gone out to the barn in a bathrobe, parka, snow boots, and a headlamp, looking like a cross between a prospector and a half-deflated lawn Santa.

Now, I didn't plan babies due in cold weather. But apparently Genevieve couldn't wait for her date with a guy about 5 months ago. I tried to warn her, but, like hormonal teenagers, when do they listen? I found her in the buck's pen one morning, and marked my calendar.

By last night, I looked at Genevieve and said, “Look, girl, either have those babies or tell me if I need to cancel my plans for the rest of the decade.” She gave me a blank stare and shifted her weight like she was rearranging furniture in there.

Well, turns out she finally took the hint—because after being in labor all night (complete with drama, heavy breathing, and one suspiciously long side-eye), she delivered: twin boys. One at a solid 8 lbs., the other just a hair under 7, both healthy, hollering, and already bouncing off the walls.

Genevieve is fine. Smug, even. She stood there afterward like, “That wasn’t so bad,” while I looked like I just came out the wrong end of a goat tornado. I think she was holding out just to see how long I could function on no sleep and cold showers.

The babies were adorable, of course. Wobbly legs, floppy ears, and that wide-eyed, slightly confused look like they were still deciding if gravity was a good idea. One of them had ears so long we named him Dumbo. They nursed well, made those tiny sneezes that melt your heart—and then pooped on my sock. Reality re-established.

Now, since Genevieve is a dairy goat, we had to decide: do we take the kids and bottle-feed them while milking her ourselves, or let her raise them and just borrow a little milk for us?

I’ll tell you what I told the sky that night: “I have raised kids. Human ones. I am not doing goat daycare.” That’s not goat farming. That’s babysitting with extra laundry.

So, we let her keep them.

For 18 hours.

Because that’s how long it took for Genevieve to discover the dark truth: babies are loud, demanding, messy, and very, very clingy. They’re either starving, snuggling, or springing around like caffeinated popcorn kernels in a hot skillet. No breaks. No boundaries. No bathroom privacy.

By the second morning, Genevieve had had enough. She marched up to the gate, locked eyes with me, and said—without a sound but very clearly—“You. With the thumbs. I’m done.”

And that was that.

She’s now back in the barn with her adult goat friends, acting like she just got back from a spa retreat. If she could’ve slammed a door behind her, she would’ve. I think she’s humming. She refuses to acknowledge she ever had children. It’s like watching a college student delete photos of their ex.

Meanwhile, I now have two tiny squatters living in Roxie’s dog crate in the house, which they’ve turned into a goat AirBnB. They’re tucked in, warm, and sleeping like they paid rent.

And Roxie? Equal parts fascinated and insulted. She keeps checking on them like a worried big sister, then pouting when they won’t play chase or let her curl up in the crate with them. I told her no hooves, no crate privileges. She’s currently sulking and muttering something about unfair housing practices.

So there you have it: Two baby goats. One displaced dog. One smug goat who’s pretending she’s single and child-free. And me, the accidental babysitter with hay in her bra and goat milk warming on the stove.

Good night from the madhouse. Wake me when they’re weaned.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Ready for Summer: Groundhog Stew and Seasonal Delusions

By someone who has worn the same winter boots since October.

Well, Groundhog Day has come and gone. Again. Just like clockwork, that overgrown hamster known as Punxsutawney Phil popped his furry little head out, saw his shadow (because of course it was sunny), and sentenced us to six more weeks of winter. Figures.

I don’t know what the weather was like in your neck of the woods, but here in the Great North Woods, it was blindingly sunny. You know—the kind of sun that makes you hopeful for warmth but only exists to bounce off the snow and blind you with all the intensity of a welding torch. My corneas are still sizzling.

And can we talk about Phil for a moment? The rodent has his own fan club. A website even. Merchandise. People travel from miles around to cheer him on like he’s some kind of meteorological rock star. Meanwhile, I’m just over here digging my car out of the driveway for the third time this week and wondering why my shovel seems shorter every year.

According to the “experts,” Phil is right about 50% of the time. That’s not predicting the weather—that’s flipping a coin while wearing a top hat. Which, by the way, those handlers in tuxedos really lean into. I don’t want to sound bitter, but I’ve yet to see anyone roll out a red carpet for me when I crawl out of bed, look outside, and grumble about the forecast. (Although to be fair, I don’t usually wear a tux.)

Anyway, despite what the marmot mafia says, I am officially declaring it spring. That’s right. I’m done. I’m wearing short sleeves inside the house. I’m flipping through seed catalogs like they’re fashion magazines. I even put on my gardening gloves the other day just to feel something different.

The chickens are with me. They've been lined up at the barn door like they’re waiting for a Target opening on Black Friday, staring out at the snow like, “Nope. Not doing it.” One particularly bold hen actually tried to stage a walkout—made it two feet before sinking like a ship. She’s still mad. Giving me side-eye through the coop window and muttering about unionizing.

The sheep? Oh, they’ve had it. They’re standing in a group, glaring at me like I personally extended winter just to ruin their social calendar. They’ve been fluffing up their wool like it’s a protest statement. Every time I come outside, I get the same look you’d give someone who just said “we’re out of coffee.” I’m pretty sure one of them is knitting a sign that says “SPRING OR STRIKE.”

I have mentally packed up winter and shipped it off to somewhere it can be appreciated—like Antarctica or a ski resort in need of fresh powder. I’m tired of my laundry consisting entirely of flannel, wool, and whatever socks I can layer over other socks. I want to see grass again. Real grass. Not that flattened, matted straw stuff under the deck that smells like broken dreams.

So here’s hoping Phil is wrong (again), spring is early (somehow), and we can all dig ourselves out of the snowbanks and into a lawn chair before June.

Because let’s be honest: I’m not sure how much longer I can keep pretending that hot chocolate counts as a vegetable.

And if that little groundhog pops up again with bad news next year? Well... let’s just say Aunt May had a recipe for stew, and I’ve got carrots.

Aunt May’s Groundhog Stew

For when winter just won’t take the hint.

Prep Time: Depends how fast you can catch him
Cook Time: Long enough to melt the snow
Serves: One very satisfied Northerner (or four annoyed chickens and a sheep)

Ingredients:

• 1 overconfident groundhog (fresh from his 15 minutes of fame)

• 2 cups carrots (extra pointy for dramatic flair)

• 3 potatoes, peeled and chopped

• 1 onion, diced while muttering “I’ll give you six more weeks…”

• 2 cloves garlic (or more if the groundhog's fan club shows up)

• 4 cups beef broth (or water from melted snowdrift)

• 1 bay leaf (because Aunt May said so)

• Salt and pepper to taste

• Dash of vindication

• Optional: a splash of red wine or leftover Christmas frustration

Instructions:

1. Preheat your wood stove to "furious."

2. Sear groundhog chunks in a cast-iron pot until they stop predicting weather.

3. Add onions and garlic. Stir while practicing your “See what happens?” speech.

4. Add carrots, potatoes, and broth. Toss in the bay leaf for class.

5. Simmer for 2-3 hours, or until the bitterness melts and your boots finally dry.

6. Serve with cornbread and a sunny disposition. Garnish with smug satisfaction.

Note:
Substitute chicken if groundhog is unavailable (but don’t tell the hens—morale’s already low). For a vegetarian version, just eat the carrots and scream into a snowbank.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm