for Jean to pick them up after school and watch them in the afternoons until I was done with the evening milking. On that first day, though, I just had to race out and check on them as soon as I heard the minivan pull up.
The animals and I all surrounded them like paparazzi as theygot out, and I expected to see them stressed and shaken from a whole day’s worth of everything new.
“How was it?” I asked, peering most closely at Abby.
Abby’s reply was a generic “Great.” Then, to Jean, she asked, “Can we play with the kittens?”
At Jean’s nod, both kids took off, leaving me behind, shouting, “Was it great for you, too, Tank?”
No reply.
“I’ll assume it was great,” I said to Jean.
“They seem good,” she confirmed.
Of course, seeming good and actually being good are not the same thing. Unlike grown-ups, who register and process struggles as they happen, kids often don’t seem to notice until much later.
“They seem good for now,” I said to Jean, quietly refusing to unclamp my heart. Maybe I’d relax in February, when we were settled. Or maybe I’d wait until summer, when we knew our way around. Or maybe I’d just wait until we were really in the clear. Like after they’d graduated from college.
Until then, I’d just try to remind myself that I could only control what I could control. Like my goat-milking efforts. Which maybe were not A-level just yet (I’d gotten one caught in the metal milking harness that week) but were improving steadily under O’Connor’s tutelage.
“You really need to relax,” he told me somewhere around week three as we both sat down at our milking stations.
“I am relaxed,” I said.
“The girls can feel that tension,” he said. “And it makes them nervous.”
“I’m making the goats nervous?” I said. “How can you even tell?”
O’Connor shrugged. “Body language.”
“Mine?” I asked. “Or theirs?”
“Both, actually,” he said.
“I haven’t really spent a lot of time around animals,” I said. “Other than a box turtle I had as a kid. Briefly. Before my mother ran over him in the driveway.”
O’Connor nodded as I tried to coax one of the goats up onto the milking platform. The more I pulled, the more she pulled back, until we created a full-fledged standoff.
“Hey there,” O’Connor said. “Take it easy.”
“She’s the one being stubborn.”
O’Connor studied the pair of us, then came around and gently led the goat up onto the platform, latching her into the milking harness in one graceful motion. Easy.
“Show-off,” I said.
A few minutes later O’Connor glanced up again. “Here’s what you do,” he said. “Sing to them.”
“Sing what to them?”
“Anything. Whatever you like. The Beatles. Show tunes.”
“Sing show tunes to the goats?”
“I sing them love songs,” he said. “Since they’re all in love with me.”
I tried to decide if he was kidding or not. It was hard to tell with his face hidden under all that hair. “Well,” I said at last, “I can’t sing.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t and won’t.” I looked over at him. “I never sing.”
“You don’t even sing in the car? Or the shower?”
“Nope.”
“What about when it’s someone’s birthday? Do you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to them?”
“I mouth it.”
“Why?”
“Because I stink at singing.”
“But, I mean, who cares?”
“I care,” I said. “And you would care if you had to hear it. Plus the goats would take off running to the far pasture.”
O’Connor regarded me for a moment. “Now I just really want to hear you sing.”
I shook my head. “Not going to happen.”
Over the next few weeks, I decided that he was, generally, much more agreeable than he’d seemed at first. He did whatever Jean asked, quickly and precisely—and she wasn’t kidding about how handy he was. From painting signs to working a bulldozer to repairing broken tractor engines, he could do absolutely anything.
He
The animals and I all surrounded them like paparazzi as theygot out, and I expected to see them stressed and shaken from a whole day’s worth of everything new.
“How was it?” I asked, peering most closely at Abby.
Abby’s reply was a generic “Great.” Then, to Jean, she asked, “Can we play with the kittens?”
At Jean’s nod, both kids took off, leaving me behind, shouting, “Was it great for you, too, Tank?”
No reply.
“I’ll assume it was great,” I said to Jean.
“They seem good,” she confirmed.
Of course, seeming good and actually being good are not the same thing. Unlike grown-ups, who register and process struggles as they happen, kids often don’t seem to notice until much later.
“They seem good for now,” I said to Jean, quietly refusing to unclamp my heart. Maybe I’d relax in February, when we were settled. Or maybe I’d wait until summer, when we knew our way around. Or maybe I’d just wait until we were really in the clear. Like after they’d graduated from college.
Until then, I’d just try to remind myself that I could only control what I could control. Like my goat-milking efforts. Which maybe were not A-level just yet (I’d gotten one caught in the metal milking harness that week) but were improving steadily under O’Connor’s tutelage.
“You really need to relax,” he told me somewhere around week three as we both sat down at our milking stations.
“I am relaxed,” I said.
“The girls can feel that tension,” he said. “And it makes them nervous.”
“I’m making the goats nervous?” I said. “How can you even tell?”
O’Connor shrugged. “Body language.”
“Mine?” I asked. “Or theirs?”
“Both, actually,” he said.
“I haven’t really spent a lot of time around animals,” I said. “Other than a box turtle I had as a kid. Briefly. Before my mother ran over him in the driveway.”
O’Connor nodded as I tried to coax one of the goats up onto the milking platform. The more I pulled, the more she pulled back, until we created a full-fledged standoff.
“Hey there,” O’Connor said. “Take it easy.”
“She’s the one being stubborn.”
O’Connor studied the pair of us, then came around and gently led the goat up onto the platform, latching her into the milking harness in one graceful motion. Easy.
“Show-off,” I said.
A few minutes later O’Connor glanced up again. “Here’s what you do,” he said. “Sing to them.”
“Sing what to them?”
“Anything. Whatever you like. The Beatles. Show tunes.”
“Sing show tunes to the goats?”
“I sing them love songs,” he said. “Since they’re all in love with me.”
I tried to decide if he was kidding or not. It was hard to tell with his face hidden under all that hair. “Well,” I said at last, “I can’t sing.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t and won’t.” I looked over at him. “I never sing.”
“You don’t even sing in the car? Or the shower?”
“Nope.”
“What about when it’s someone’s birthday? Do you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to them?”
“I mouth it.”
“Why?”
“Because I stink at singing.”
“But, I mean, who cares?”
“I care,” I said. “And you would care if you had to hear it. Plus the goats would take off running to the far pasture.”
O’Connor regarded me for a moment. “Now I just really want to hear you sing.”
I shook my head. “Not going to happen.”
Over the next few weeks, I decided that he was, generally, much more agreeable than he’d seemed at first. He did whatever Jean asked, quickly and precisely—and she wasn’t kidding about how handy he was. From painting signs to working a bulldozer to repairing broken tractor engines, he could do absolutely anything.
He
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