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| birth plan |
All that barn cleaning paid
off. It seems that the “nesting”
instinct applies to kidding out goats, too.
A doe named “Ritzy” went into labor yesterday morning and we all sprang
into action – following our “birth plan.”
Step 1: Pick up Katherine from school – this is her gig,
not mine. She can miss a little school
to get some life experience. The school
secretary knows my voice without me even saying my name. (But first, I had to
go to a work meeting, buy “birthday snack” at Safeway, and drop said snack off
at Bobbie’s classroom. All the while, I prayed
that Ritzy would keep her legs crossed while I ran my errands.)
Step 2: Race home with Katherine. Usually, I make her do all the driving to
practice for her driver’s test. But we
needed to go FAST. So, move over bacon.
Step 3: Finish last minute barn preparations. Fill water bucket, put up new fly tape (ick),
turn on fan (stifling hot out here), prep hand-washing bucket, and stock the
barn with water bottles and snacks for Katherine.
Step 4: Wait. And
wait. And wait.
All that rushing and praying
for nothing. As usual. But I have experienced situations where
Katherine and/or I underestimated the situation. One time we paid a short visit to a friend in
the next county (to buy goats); by the time we got home, the doe who had showed
absolutely no signs of labor had pushed out a kid and forgotten to clean the
amniotic sac off the baby’s nose…bad outcome.
Less than 2 hours for god’s sake! So, I now err on the side of caution.
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| buttermilk fried chicken |
We got home at 12:45 pm and Katherine threw on her
barn clothes (aka pajamas) and prepped herself for the birthing.
Yesterday was Robbie’s
birthday, too, so I had a big family dinner of fried chicken, potato salad,
corn on the cob, and Hawaiian dinner rolls all ready to go (his fav’). Of course Katherine could’ve missed it, but that makes me (and maybe Robbie) sad. So I hereby extend a heartfelt “thank you” to
Ritzy for holding off on kidding so Katherine could have dinner and dessert
with us (in her barn clothes).
By that time, Ritzy had been
in labor at least nine hours. I’d have
been screaming for an epidural myself, but she was stoic. Good ‘ole Ritz-bits.
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| ("Darth Kidder" is the name of our barn camera) |
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| Ritzy in labor |
She’s a squirrely goat, and
doesn’t like an audience. Katherine
could see on the camera (named “Darth Kidder”) that Ritzy was lying down and
pushing, but every time Katherine would walk into the barn to see for herself, Ritzy
would pop right up and stare back as if to say, “Nope, nothing going on in
here. Not a thing.”
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| Katherine's "nursing station" |
Ritzy is
also eerily quiet. Some goats scream and
carry on with every single contraction (big or little), which makes it hard to tell when something
is really happening. Others, like Ritzy,
are stone cold silent, which also makes it hard to tell when something is
happening.
So Katherine
had to set up her "nursing station" OUTSIDE the barn. I sat with her for a little while with my
book, and every time we heard Ritzy paw at the straw and plop herself down to push with the contractions, Katherine
and I stealthily peeked around the corner to see if she needed our ”help.”
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| Peek |
Let’s
take a moment here to define “help.” My own experience with childbirth (7 times, mind you) is that
the anesthesiologist sets you up with an epidural (God bless each and every anesthesiologist),
and then the nurses flutter about while your husband/partner/friend/whatever
stares anxiously at you from their uncomfortable chair, maybe while holding
your hand. The nurses bring you cups of
ice, read monitors, scribble notes, and assess your pain level (“on a scale of
1 to 10…”). The doctor comes in occasionally and “checks your cervix,” which I will not describe here.
Goat birthing is virtually the
same, with two exceptions. First, no
anesthesiologist. Sorry goats. I really am.
I always feel so bad for the does because I keenly remember the
pain. Second, the partner is nowhere to
be seen. Love ‘em and leave ‘em.
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| labor and delivery nurse (cute video on YouTube) |
But the rest is about the same. Katherine plays the part of both nurse and
doctor, giving the goats water (no ice, sorry), checking their
cervix (“looob”), and scribbling notes on the white board. She'd ask their pain level if they could answer...
Sometimes I scratch the goat’s head or side,
but somehow it’s just not the same. I guess that wouldn't have made me feel better, either. Oh, well.
But most of the time last
night, Katherine sat outside of the barn, on her tool box, reading her
book by the light of her head lamp, and visiting with the other goats in the
pen.
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| (note the glowing eyes of the livestock dog and another goat in the background -- spooky!!) |
Suddenly
it was action time. Just like with
people, there was a flurry of activity, some moaning, some goo, then a
baby. (That’s the highly abbreviated
version of this process… more on that another time!) 
Katherine
went to work clearing the baby’s airways first with a towel, then with a
variety of “snot suckers,” then with a piece of straw. Sneeze sneeze. Next the rubbing down part with a rag to wipe off the big wads of yuck. Finally,
Katherine put the tiny baby in front of Ritzy who took over the
cleaning process, aggressively licking the baby to clean off the goo, stimulate
breathing and initiate bonding. Ritzy
rolled the baby over a couple times in her rigorous “mothering.” Silly goat.
My job in all of this
commotion is to hand over rags, snot suckers, and, eventually, the meds (and
take pictures!). As I’ve said before,
this is her gig. I can read the label on
the bottle, and that’s about all.
She weighed the baby and drew
up a variety of vitamins, steroids (it was a little weak), and antibiotics (for
the mama). It didn’t occur to me until I
was editing the pictures just how scary it is to see your 16-year-old daughter draw
and give shots. How in the world did she
learn that?? (The answer: YouTube)
I sat in awe. I’ve witnessed this process a
hundred times, and I hold my breath every time that baby squirts out and takes
its first breath (or not). I’ve watched
Katherine’s confidence grow exponentially with each kidding. I’ve seen her reposition babies in utero more
times than I can count.
I’ve watched her
resuscitate mostly-dead kids. I’ve
watched her put new babies in front of their mama and instinctively take a step
back to give them room to bond (you don’t learn that on YouTube. Hah!)
Watching the scene play out
reinforced what I’ve been reading in How to Raise an Adult (Julie
Lythcott-Haims). Specifically, Lythcott-Haims discusses the theory of “self-efficacy,” which “is the belief in your
abilities to complete a task, reach a goal, and manage a situation.” The basic
idea is that as parents we need to give our kids enough latitude and time to
plan, execute and manage a task from start to finish to build their confidence
in their own ability to manage the myriad of (absurd) situations that adult
life will throw their way.
It’s all basic life skills:
confidence, taking chances, responsibility, independence, thinking-on-your-feet,
and, most importantly, resilience.
Who
knew goat birthing could provide such critical life skills?? And Katherine has done it all without me. I could not be more proud.
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| "On We Go" hiding under her mama, "Remarkably Ritzy" |
