Henry said, "Mom, that goat is in labor, don't let her out." Pish posh, I thought to myself.

Thirty minutes later, after catching her and putting her back in the stall, I had my fingers in that goat's vagina, looking for a missing foot. Four minutes after that, I was helping dry off the sweetest little doe I've ever seen. The wind is whipping today, and cold. So I wanted that baby dry sooner rather than later. But her Mama is good and steady. The baby was born on a clean blanket, had her stump dipped in betadine, and we saw her nurse twice. I gave Mama goat a bucket of warm water with molasses and fresh hay to eat. Both are snuggled up and sleeping in their stall.

The children got to see everything. They saw Mama goat's intensity. They heard her bellow, grunt, and bray. At one point I said to her, "You just sing your song, Darling." As much to reassure the children as anything. They saw membranes and fluids, the moment adults spring to action, the work of The Mother. They felt the slippery way time slows and moves during birth. They witnessed the eating of the membranes, the nudging up of the baby, the wet umbilicus, the way babies cry. Again to reassure I said, "We want to hear a nice loud baby cry. Babies who can cry are strong. Its good. Everything is ok."

Their eyes huge, their hearts full, their minds blown.