The Good Life
Sheep jokes aside, some blokes are just naturals when it comes to rearing an abandoned lamb.
Ido hope Michele reads this column. Frankly, as a very new mother, she desperately needs my advice and help, but, bizarrely, she keeps putting her fingers in her ears, yelling “la-la-la-la-laaa” and running away every time I go near her.
You see, another tiny, abandoned lamb arrived this week. Elizabeth Jane was just one day old when
Miles the sheep farmer’s wife, Janet, delivered her to our door.
After the – how should I put this? – “unexpected” decision by our first healthy new lamb, the exceptionally clever and talented Xanthe, to choose me as her mother and not the honestly-quitedesperate Michele, I made sure to keep my obviously super-motherly person well away from little
Elizabeth Jane while Michele made her layperson attempts to bond.
Naturally, with such extensive mothering experience, I thought it best I also mother Elizabeth Jane. But in truth, I couldn’t have put up with another bout of secretive sulking and furtive mewling like we had when I became Xanthe’s mum three weeks ago.
The wild paradox here is that I have never wanted children. Around the time I decided I was probably an atheist – about 15 – I also decided that there was no way in Hades I wanted kids, possibly because I suspected they might be the same sort of ungrateful little snots that I was becoming.
Yet, nearly 40 years later, here I am, a parent. I’d be inclined to say that the Lord moves in mysterious ways, but as an atheist, I’m not allowed to.
In any case, some want to be mothers, others have motherhood thrust upon them – and if it is, it’s your sacred duty to do the best job you can. Fortunately, it seems that, despite my disinclination toward parenting, I am an exceptionally talented mother.
I began by creating a warm, safe sleeping space. You might not know this, though I knew it instinctively: lambs are very susceptible to the cold in their first few weeks.
I might have done what our neighbour Tony’s family once did. Back last century, his mother was a contestant on Selwyn Toogood’s wonderfully folksy game show It’s in the Bag. I’m not sure what the money offered was, but, by hokey, Tony’s mum “took the bag”. Inside was a clothes dryer. It was one of those old-fashioned ones, a fridge-sized metal cabinet with racks and an underpowered heater. The thing was useless for drying clothes, Tony reckoned. So, for the next 30 years, come springtime, you’d not find washing inside it, but tiny lambs on every rack.
With no ancient dryer to hand, I made a secure nest in the garage with old blankets and towels, a heating mat and a children’s playpen.
Next, I had to decide on my mothering philosophy. As the product of a conservative family who viewed public displays of affection as too embarrassing for words, I decided to break the cycle. I would be a hugging mother, a playful mother, and I would let my lamb run wild so that she might find out who she is, develop self-confidence and express herself creatively.
I am educating her to get plenty of exercise and learn to love the outdoors. Together we go for long walks around the property; I use my grubber to thwack thistles and she sniffs things, eats twigs and piddles everywhere.
I am teaching her good eating habits, too. Though she is very hungry all the time, I’m limiting her milk to just over a litre a day, so that she doesn’t get fat and her rumen grows. This is quite technical so I’ll go through it slowly: a rumen is a part of a sheep’s digestive system, and, as a future milking sheep, the brilliant and talented Xanthe needs a big one. It’s best to underfeed her a little so she’ll eat her greens and grow her rumen. Carolyn the shepherdess told me this, and as a brilliant mother, I was open to her advice.
If only Michele was the same.
The dryer was useless for drying clothes so, come springtime, you’d find lambs on every rack.