Backing up a bit...

    Once upon a time, specifically May 20, 2013, after a very long seven months of searching, Brian and I closed on a house in the area of town we were hoping to stay.  The road out front was a little busy, but the house was nice and the yard was better than anything we'd seen in the neighborhoods we were hoping to move into, complete with an inground pool, beautiful deck and patio, 3.64 acres and a pond besides.  We were pretty much sold after the first showing, despite being in a price range that was a bit higher than we were hoping.  It was the first house that had things we were both hoping for- an open floor plan and a master bathroom for me, and for Brian the yard and two sheds to hold his collection of man-town supplies.  It was the first time I was actually even excited about the yard.  It had a little spring which bubbled into a stream to feed the pond, frogs and toads for the kids to catch, box turtles basking on a log by the pond, ducks, and even a pair of beavers.  In the early summer the fireflies lit the backyard up into an amazing show, some nights I would just find myself staring out the window at them.  It really had everything.  

     Everything, we found out after inviting Brian's brother over, including Poison Ivy, and, we found out after we invited friends over, a LOT of it.  The poison ivy was all along the brushy area that bordered our yard, and around the pond, up the trees, and even spreading out a bit in the grass.  

    "See then, we DO need goats!" exclaimed my husband, who had grown up with a couple of goats and a pony and with every house we looked at had determined how many "head" of livestock we could have. 

    "We're NOT getting goats!" I replied, amused but also a little tired of hearing that we needed goats from both he and the girls, who ate up all of his goat stories and plotted names for the goats and horses on their imaginary farm.  "And if we were getting goats, we wouldn't let them eat poison ivy, that's just cruel!"  

    "Kris, goats EAT poison ivy, people actually get them for that purpose!" 

    Our friend agreed with him, but I continued to argue this fact until Brian showed me a couple of websites that argued his case, but even then I was skeptical, after all, you can't believe everything you read on the internet, especially when your sanity might be on the line.  

    About a week later, I was still determined that poison ivy consumption would be equivalent to goat abuse.  The girls were watching morning cartoons on PBS, which at eight o'clock had switched to their favorite show, Curious George.  George was out in the country with his yellow-clad friend again, helping the farmers next door with their chores, when what should appear (for the first time EVER to my recollection, and we've been watching this show for a looongg time) but a pair adorable little goats who were about to be sold from the farm because, while adorable, they had no use on the farm.  Then what did that damned little monkey do?  He discovered a use for them; eating poison ivy.  

     I had been betrayed by one of my favorite childhood literary characters.  My argument was toast; when Curious freakin' George is against you and your kids immediately start backing him up with "SEE mom"s, you pretty much don't have a leg to stand on anymore; I was going to have to consider this goat thing.  

And so it begins....

Well, we did it.  We stopped talking about it and bit the proverbial parental bullet (which, as long as I'm starting this blog with cliches, I might as well add is looking like it will be more than either of us ever intended on chewing) that comes with speaking of future pets hypothetically around your children.  We bought the goats.

As I write there are two Nigerian dwarf kids (hopefully, God forbid we lose one on the first night) sleeping in a pen Brian just made out of a couple of old pallets we found in the back yard when we moved here (pretty darn clever actually; my husband moonlights as MacGyver :) ).  They are laying (and peeing) on a bed of newspaper inside one of our sheds instead of the grassy ground my eight year old daughter has insisted all night would be best for their feet (I don't question that one; How to Raise Goats: Everything You Need to Know by Carol Amundson is practically her bible right now, she can quote it on almost any goat-related subject).  I am most definitely on the side of de-goating our shed as soon as possible, because if the 90 minute car ride back to our house is any indication, that shed is going to make the burger we accidently left on the top of our fridge for weeks (all the while trying to sniff out what was dead in our kitchen) seem like a pleasant memory.  

I will go into more detail on how we got to this crazy point in tomorrow's post, I'm too tired to make much sense tonight (case and point- the above paragraphs), but I really thought it would be fitting to start this blog today; our first day as goat owners.  I hope it will be a place that friends, family, and  other future goat owners can find amusing anecdotes, and hopefully the latter group will also read about our stupid mistakes and not repeat them (I'm not kidding myself, I know there will be a bunch, in fact, as you will see in tomorrow's post, we already have).  But mostly I want to write this for my girls, who I love so much, even when they get me into these crazy situations :)

(The first members of our herd- Lily our middle child's doeling, right, and Edward, the wether we bought to keep her company until we could find a goat for our older daughter)