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.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm