A heifer was born over the weekend, so we picked her up — literally, in my daughter’s case — and added her to the pack.

She’s a little thing, wiry and independant. During the day, she likes to go lay down in the tall grass, far away from the boys.

It’s still up for grabs whether or not we will keep her for a milk cow — and it’d be a bit overwhelming since she’d give way more milk than we could use — but we’ll figure that out later. In the meantime, I get such a kick out of her. When she drinks her bottle her tail curls up.

One of the boys has scours, but so far we’re managing it with electrolytes. He’s still eating, and still able to get up and around, so fingers crossed he makes it!

Ever since getting home, running has been pure agony. I’m running the same distances I did before we went to Puerto Rico, but it used to be I often felt energized after a run, like I was hardly even breathing heavy, but now it’s all I can do to keep myself going. I figured it would take me a few runs to whip myself back into shape, but yesterday morning, after going on yet another run in which my legs felt excruciatingly weak and sore, it finally occurred to me: I hurt because I’m building muscle!

Four months of running on level ground, and all my leg muscles practically shriveled up, apparently, so now that I’m going up and down hills and trying to keep up with my super speedy sister-in-law, it makes sense that I’m kind of dying.

I’ll keep plugging away and in a couple more weeks I’ll hopefully feel stronger. (If you hate running but kind of want to not hate it, this inspiring post is just for you.)

The whole time we were in Puerto Rico, I felt slightly puffy and bloated, like I was retaining water. Which I probably was. In hot weather, my one ankle puffs up, and my fingers swell, too. Which made me wonder: in hot climates, does everyone weigh an additional five pounds, thanks to water retention?

I don’t know the answer, but I do know that within days of coming home, I’d peed a whole bunch and de-puffed accordingly.

A bunch of you wondered about my reasons for wanting Coco (and the other dogs) to stay outside, so here you go:

*I’m sensitive to animal smells and even the sweetest smelling animals have a funk.
*Dirty paws, poopy butts, fleas and ticks, ick.
*Potty accidents.
*Allergies. A couple of us are allergic to cats and dogs, and while our symptoms are mostly managed, some houseguests might be more vulnerable.
*Additional bodies = increased activity = more chaos.
*Their garden protection services are needed outside, where the garden is.

Summary: I have principles, dammit!

P.S. Coco is sleeping in my daughter’s bed at night.

Earlier this week I nearly suffered death by laundry. After days of rain, I was about bonkers.

The air was so damp that nothing would dry. We hung clothes up in the downstairs bedroom and they just molded. It was reminiscent of our time in Guatemala (and there we got a dryer). The floors felt sticky, the bed sheets soggy. Wood swelled so doors wouldn’t shut and drawers wouldn’t close.

I gave up on even trying to do laundry, and the rancid piles just grew higher and higher. At the peak, the dirty laundry in the upstairs bathroom topped out at waist level.

Weirdly, I felt slightly proud.

I ran out of dish towels. The kids ran out of underwear. Just when we were reaching desperation levels and I was considering a trip to the laundromat, the sun came out. Over the course of the last 48 hours, I’ve probably done at least 18 loads of laundry.

Each time I wake up during the night, I sleepily stroke the sheets, reveling in their sun-dried, crispy-smooth freshness, ahhhh.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (9.18.17), historical fun, the quotidian (9.21.15). the big bad wolf, baking with teachers, candid camera, the potluck solution, we love Fred, vacationing till it hurts.

This same time, years previous: the brothers buzz, cast iron skillet steak, black bean and veggie salad, nectarine bourbon pie, in defense of battered kitchen utensils, the quotidian (9.17.12), goodbye summer, hello fall.

We’ve been wanting to get a couple steers to raise for meat again, so last week when a friend told us about a local dairy farm that was selling off a bunch of calves, I jumped.

Originally we thought we’d get two calves, but then my husband pointed out that if we were already bottle feeding two, what was two more? We could sell the extra steers after a few months. But then we learned that the farm occasionally sells heifer calves and a few of us thought it might be fun, a couple years from now, to experience death by milk, glug-glug. However, when we got to the farm, they didn’t have any available heifer calves, so, thinking we’d get a heifer calf later, we got only three males.

Though now that we’re home and up to our eyeballs in calf poop and milk bottles, I’m thinking three calves might be plenty enough right now?

On the other hand, maybe we should go back for a heifer calf? We’re kind of leap first, look later people, so this is probably the only way we’d ever actually take on a milk cow. Besides, it’s not like we’d have to breed and milk her. We’d have two years to think it over, and we could always change our minds, right? Right?

Sidenote: At the farm, the owner took a good look at my daughter and said, “You look familiar. Do I know you?” We puzzled over possible connections for a few seconds, and then it dawned on me: the relief sale! Our daughter is the poster child for the Virginia Mennonite Relief Sale, and her face is plastered everywhere.

Anyway, moving along….

The calves are crosses between Brown Swiss and Holstein. With their long, spindly legs and high rumps, they’re a lot bigger than I thought they’d be, and they’re encouragingly active. Heavy, too.

Even though we checked to make sure each of the calves had a good suck at the farm, once we got them home, we had trouble getting them to take the bottle. Only one kept at it, sucking and sucking and sucking, but without taking in hardly any milk. Then my daughter enlarged the nipple holes with a knife and — schlurp — down went the milk. Suddenly they were buzzing all over the shed, chewing on our pant legs and butting us in the butts. It was like they’d just had a shot of caffeine.

I bought enough frozen colostrum for two feedings per calf, but then later I read that calves are only capable of absorbing the antibodies up to 36 hours after birth, so, since two of the three calves were two days old — and since at the farm, they’d already given them each three quarts of the colostrum — buying the stuff was probably a waste of money.

But on the bright side: when pouring the colostrum into the kettle to heat it up, I spilled an alarming amount, sending a bunch of the thick, creamy liquid cascading down between the counter and the stove, so we had to pull the stove out from the wall and scrub everything down so now my kitchen is just that much cleaner, yay.

We’re all a little paranoid about the calves getting scours (i.e. deadly diarrhea), so we’re obsessively watching their poos. We’ve read up on home remedies (doses of pectin mixed with water, adding a raw egg to their milk, etc), and my daughter gave them vitamin injections and is keeping their shed clean and dry, but really, we have no idea what we’re doing. We’re just winging it.

Wish us luck!

This same time, years previous: lemony mashed potato salad, what they talked about, the quotidian (9.14.15), the quotidian (9.16.13), cinnamon sugar breadsticks, whole wheat jammies.