There are a great many things that need doing at this point in time on the Homestead. Gardens need weeding, seedlings are climbing out of their pots, raised beds need some TLC, and the tarpaulin curtain on the feed shed has yet again broken lose from it’s moorings. Now that we’ve got that fancy-schmancy oven, we should be undertaking some freezer-filling, mega bake-offs for those days when it is discovered, whilst assembling the off-Homsteader’s afternoon sustenance, that “Mr/s Nobody” has struck yet again, leaving only a half a soggy chocolate chippie lurking in the depths of the biscuit tin. There’s also a teetering Everest of mending, the front door (it’s still sticking), and the store cupboard to reorganise now the kitchen cupboards are up and running…the list is endless. Unfortunately, we have a paddock full of goat babies.
The amount of time you can let slip away just sitting in the paddock under a pile of playful kids is embarrassing.
Every task in the vicinity of the paddock takes three times as long, as your attention is diverted by yet more cute goatie antics.
Off-Homestead workers, their arrival only obvious by the presence of the Homestead Mobile in the driveway, make the paddock their first port of call and we’ve now caught up on all the gossip as our neighbours pop past to lob a few vege off-cuts, a couple of handfuls of gleaned ivy, or (this is utterly true – would we lie to you?) a handful of peeled and julienned carrots over the fence in the hope of attracting their favourite kid’s attention.
NB: this is a futile exercise, as paddock matriarch Geraldine has first dibs on everything.
Homestead tabulations have Geraldine’s boy as current paddock favourite,
followed closely by Leia’s two;
not that Geraldine’s girl doesn’t have her fans.
But whatever the preference, you can be sure that any conversation will inevitably roll round to the question of what fate holds in store for the four of them. But that’s a question for another day.
“Let’s get Christmas out of the way first,” we say. By then, experience tells us, they’ll have worn out their welcome somewhat and the thought of their departure will not fill our hearts with dread and eyes with surreptitious moisture.
For now, we’re playing ostrich about our kids.