Friday, Farm Day.

Unfortunately, I overbooked us last week and we didn’t get around to Evie’s favorite Friday event: the farm. Honestly, I love it as much as she does. Our friend Charlene currently has about 10 baby goats. Both my children get such a kick from petting them and watching them caper around. We get our milk weekly from her and one time she invited us in to help her bottle feed some newborn kids. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity. Who doesn’t want to feed baby goats?!

I got Evie and James out of the car and we walked with Charlene through their garage and into their little mudroom. The majority of the space was consumed by a large, wooden pen. I peaked my head in and gasped. Inside were the tiniest, cutest, brown and black goats I had ever seen in my life. They bleated when they heard Charlene’s voice and I hurriedly picked Evelyn up so she could take a look.

Charlene filled a bottle and then let Evie help feed the babies. I was so proud of my Evs! She had never been around farm animals before, but she took to it like a duck to water. She held the bottle so still and gently patted the wiggly little creature as it guzzled down the milk. I immediately offered Charlene our assistance around the farm on Fridays. I knew we couldn’t do too much for her, but I thought if I at least swept out the barn, I could pay her back for all the time we get to spend petting the goats. (I have a not-so-secret desire to have a small farm one day… still trying to convince my husband on chickens, though.) Evelyn is a regular little farm girl, now. As soon as she clambers out of the car, she marches into their garage, finds the egg baskets, and leads me down to the barn to collect eggs.

 Speaking of eggs, that is Evie’s second favorite thing to do at the farm: collect the duck and chicken eggs. She fearlessly wades through bobbing and darting foul, bucket in hand. She is barely taller than the roosters. The second time we were in there she learned quickly that the roosters do not like to be touched. I was trying to scooch an ornery brooder off her hoard of warm eggs when I heard a frightened, “Mama! Mama! No!” behind me. I spun ‘round to see one of the roosters jump up and kick Evie square in the chest. I ran over and whacked it with my basket and picked up my girl. She was scared and I thought that would be the end of egg-gathering for her, but she bravely persevered. Now, whenever we go collect eggs, she makes sure to remind me that the roosters do not want to be petted.

So now, if I ever mention “Friday” in front of Evie, she immediately breaks out in a grin, sidles up conspiratorially and whispers, “We goin’ to see the baby goats today!” Her whole face lights up and she dances around the house to help me locate her socks and rain boots. Sometimes, when we can’t go see the baby goats, I have to watch her little balloon of happiness deflate in front of me. It’s the saddest. She is a brave soul and rallies quickly, but I almost feel like I’ve taken away Christmas when we can’t make it out to the farm. So, like a good mother, I now completely avoid the word “Friday” if I know that we can’t make it out there one week.