The weather forecast for tonight is a temperature of seven below zero. For the past week I've been looking at that forecast and thinking, "I'll have to stay up late Wednesday--we'll probably get some babies then." I was thinking of stuff to do tonight to stay awake in case Dad took the Internet connection when he went to bed. Crack some corn for Corbie, crochet a liner for my hood and maybe some tube socks, maybe bake that leftover cookie dough from yesterday.

At nine o'clock I checked on the ladies for the first time. They were all pretty excited to see me, since the evening check is when they get their grain. The goats all rushed over, and Winter, being a greedy girl, ran out into the hall to try to get into the feed. I thought I heard a baby bleat, but, I thought, it was probably one of the lambs. I dismissed it, poured out the grain, and went to chase Winter back in. She's getting quite good at understanding, "I WILL BEAT YOUR FACE IN, YOU STUPID, GREEDY GOAT!!" bellowed by someone chasing her. Goats learn quickly, and we've been performing this routine for several days. Anyway, I got her back in, and then, because cold makes me paranoid and the lamp for that room is temporarily out of commission, I walked around the room, peering at white shapes in case one of the girls had already kidded. On the far side of the room, in the lee of the bale we'd brought in for bedding and a windbreak, there were two. One looked very much like a kid trying to stand, even in the dark and without my glasses (earlier removed because when it's this cold they tend to fog.) They were both kids: Snowflake had kidded, cleaned them, and even fed one before I distracted her with the promise of grain.

I promptly abducted them while her back was turned. Snowflake is a very good mother, and if we don't take her kids away immediately she will let them nurse until they are sold or dead. I am not kidding. She might not see them for a month, but having nursed them for a week after birth she will recognize them. If she were a sheep, I would cherish her as a pearl among ewes. Unfortunately, she is a dairy goat, and we want her milk. We do not want her to permit chance-met incorrigibles to drink her dry every time we let the whole herd out to graze. So we try to take her kids away immediately after birth. I took this pair inside, and we dried them in front of the wood stove, fed them, and tried to convince them to go to sleep. This last isn't working quite as well as we could wish: the buck keeps waking up and bleating. But so far, this night is a success. I'm still going to have to stay up late to check on everyone, though. Murphy's law suggests that Hina would jump at the opportunity to catch me off guard, and first-time mothers should not lamb alone when it's minus seven outside.