Living on a farm is very different today than the days of the dust bowl and laura ingalls. If our crops don’t grow, we make a trip to the market; we won’t starve. We can easily maneuver with plan b or even c. A bad year or two means discomfort, rather than a major threat. It doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult and that we don’t experience disappointment. Today I found myself willing our girls to kid, while at the same time, dreading it.
This year we are heavy in male kids…understatement of the year. 15 kids..1 girl. One. While it is insane to think so, I torture myself with the belief, that I must be doing something wrong. I scour the internet, late at night, looking for wives tales, anecdotes, charms and voodoo to turn the tide. I am humbled by the inability to control and impossible quest to prepare. I’m also kinda sorta pissed off.
It legitimately “is what it is”. If I had any working knowledge of genetics or statistics, I’m not sure if I would be more or less optimistic.
At the end of the day, without girls we don’t grow our herd. Until we grow our herd, there is no creamery.
This life we chose has its own timeline. It stalls and propels me in an uncomfortable manner. Goals aren’t set and ticked by sheer force of will. This force of nature is real and strong and can not be dismissed. She is making herself known and all I can do is sit back and see what is next.
And while they are mostly males, only an ass would complain, rather than well with joy, finding a nursery filled with healthy little kids.