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Every herd has one.
The boss.
The ruler.

The one everyone listens to.
And no matter how much we goat owners would love to think it’s us… it usually isn’t.

In my herd, I have a mix of breeds — French Alpine, Nubian, Mini Nubian, LaMancha, Mini LaMancha, and Nigerian Dwarf.
So naturally, you would assume the herd queen would be one of the larger girls.

Nope.

Mine is a tiny Nigerian Dwarf doe named Mazikeen.

And honestly? I didn’t even realize she was running the entire operation until she left the pen.
At one point, I had actually considered selling Mazikeen, but I waited because I wanted to see how her kids turned out first, how she handled milking, and what kind of mother she would be before making a decision.

While she was pregnant, she stayed in the main herd pen and everything was peaceful. Everyone got along. The goats behaved. Feeding time wasn’t chaos. Nobody was acting like they had lost their minds.

And I remember standing there thinking: “Wow. Look at me. I am absolutely crushing this goat-owner thing.”
Turns out… it wasn’t me.
It was Mazikeen.

When it was time for her to kid, we moved her over to the nursery pen. I didn’t think much about it at first.

But then things started changing. The does started getting rude with each other. Some became pushy with us. The jumping got worse. The biting increased, with eachother. Suddenly everyone was acting like tiny horned teenagers who had just discovered caffeine.

It got so bad that I even considered selling a couple of them — and some of those goats are my favorites. I couldn’t understand why everyone had suddenly turned into little buttheads.

Then my daughter said: “Mom… they didn’t act like this when Mazikeen was in here.”
And just like that, it clicked.
Mazikeen was the herd queen.

She was the one keeping everybody in line this whole time. The second she left, the entire herd fell apart like goat society had completely collapsed.

You know the saying: “When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
Well, apparently when the Nigerian Dwarf leaves, the whole herd loses its mind.

Now, Mazikeen already proved herself in every other category. She’s an amazing mother who fed all three of her kids without any issues. She’s wonderful on the milking stand. Calm, steady, easy to work with.

But now I had discovered something else: She helps run the herd better than I do.
When we finally put her back in with everyone, she immediately went to work restoring order. She marched right back into that pen like a tiny security guard returning after vacation.

Oh, the other goats tried questioning her authority for about 5 minutes.
Mazikeen shut that down quickly.
A few days hours after Mazikeen had been in the main pen one of the doe’s tried to jump me and before I could even react, Mazikeen charged over and head-butted her away from me.

Then she stood next to me looking up like: “Don’t worry, Mom. She won’t be doing that again.”
And honestly?
I believed her.

So now I fully accept the truth.
I may feed the goats.
I may pay the hay bill.
I may clean the pens.
But Mazikeen runs the herd.
My tiny Nigerian Dwarf may be small in size…
but she has the biggest personality on the homestead!

Thank you for reading!  Please share, like, or comment!

#mjbackyardingwithkids #PleaseShare #thankyou #nigeriandwarfgoats #herdqueen #queen #goatmom

#HomesteadLife #GoatCare #HappyGoats #countryliving #goatmom #thursday #mazikeen  

If you’ve been following along for a while, then you probably remember the blog post about Jane Doe’s hard delivery and the tiny little boys we honestly weren’t sure would make it through those first few hours.

T2 and T3 are now officially 8 weeks old, and these two little fighters are doing wonderful.
They’re eating hay like pros now and are down to two bottles a day. Watching them grow has honestly been one of the best parts of kidding season. Even though they’re thriving, they are still noticeably smaller than the other Nigerian Dwarf babies born after them.

The newer babies are already about three inches taller than T2 and T3.
But don’t let their tiny size fool you. These boys are 100% bucklings.
Recently they started acting what we lovingly call “bucky.” If you know, you know. Suddenly there’s the little buck noises, the dramatic curled lip, and the nonstop chasing of doelings around the pen like they’re the most important goats on the farm.

They may be miniature-sized, but apparently nobody told them that.
It’s honestly hilarious watching these tiny little guys puff themselves up and strut around like full-grown bucks. One minute they’re bouncing off hay bales, and the next they’re making faces like they pay the meals around here.

Today is another milestone for T2 and T3 — they’ll be getting banded.
For those who may not know, banding is a common and bloodless method of castrating (or “wethering”) male goat kids. A special tool called an elastrator places a very tight rubber band around the top of the scrotum. The band cuts off blood flow to the testicles, which eventually dry up and fall off on their own over the next couple of weeks.

It can cause some discomfort at first, and yes, the boys will probably spend a little time questioning all of their life choices afterward. But when done correctly and at the proper age, banding is generally safe, effective, and commonly used for pet and companion goats.

As hard as their beginning was, seeing T2 and T3 bouncing around acting like tiny troublemakers feels like a huge victory. These little boys may be small, but they’ve proven from day one that they are tough.
And honestly? Watching the smallest babies turn into healthy, mischievous little goats never gets old.

As you can see in these other photos they are noticeable smaller than the babies that are younger than them

Thanks for reading,  please share, comment, and follow.

#mjbackyardingwithkids #homesteading #goats #selfsufficientliving #livestock #countryliving #GoatLove #goatkids #tuesday

The barn is loud by morning light,
With tiny hooves and playful fights.
The coffee’s cold, the chores are long,
But somehow still… the days feel strong.

The mama goats all softly call,
To babies big and babies small.
They nudge them close, they stand up tall,
And somehow always love through all.
A mother’s work is much the same,
Though ours may look a little strange.
With muddy boots and hay-filled hair,
And twenty things that need repair.

We feed the kids, we mend the fence,
We lose our minds at least “ten-tenths.”
Yet in the chaos, dirt, and noise,
There’s endless love and endless joy.
So here’s to moms both far and near,
Who wipe the tears and calm the fear.

And here’s to goats — because somehow,
They teach us all to love right now.
Happy Mother’s Day to every mama
human, goat, and everything in between

#mjbackyardingwithkids #GoatMomLife #mothersday

#sunday #countryliving #GoatLove #children #love

On March 12th, my daughter and I were getting ready to leave for a trip. Bags were packed, tea hadn’t even kicked in yet, and the world was still quiet in that eerie 4 a.m. kind of way.
       Right before we walked out the door, my daughter said, “I want to go check on Jane Doe.”
Now, Jane Doe wasn’t due for another week. In my mind, this was a quick “she’s fine, let’s go” kind of check. But something told me to say yes. So we grabbed the flashlights and headed out.  The cold hit first. Then the quiet. And then… we saw them.
Four babies.

One was already up, dry, walking around, crying loudly like he had opinions about how this whole situation had gone down. The other two… were fading fast. Weak. Barely moving.
And the last one?

Jane Doe hadn’t even cleaned him off. He was soaked… and ice cold.
That’s when everything shifted from “quick check” to full-on emergency mode.

We didn’t even think—we just moved.
We scooped up all four babies and rushed them inside. Towels. Blow dryer. Warming tent. Controlled chaos.

My daughter took over drying and rotating the babies in the warming tent like she’d been training for this moment her whole life. Meanwhile, I focused on the fourth baby—the cold one.

I rubbed. I warmed. I tried.
But he was gone.
Just like that.

We set him aside gently, already knowing we’d take him back out to Jane Doe later. There wasn’t time to process it. The other three needed us.

And in that moment, that’s what homesteading really is.
It’s not the picture-perfect moments. It’s not the cute baby photos.

It’s standing in your bathroom at 4:30 in the morning, trying to bring life back into tiny bodies while your travel plans sit completely forgotten.
It’s heartbreak and hope—at the exact same time.

The first baby was doing great. Strong, loud, and already acting like he owned the place. We named him T1—short for Tiny Tim #1.
T2 and T3… we weren’t so sure about. ( short for Tiny Tim #2 and Tiny Tim #3)

They were tiny. And I don’t mean “small but cute” tiny—I mean shockingly small. About the length of a baby bottle, both weighing under two pounds. In the middle of everything going on, I didn’t even think to grab weight photos, I did take a few photos but  Survival mode doesn’t leave much room for documentation.

We just focused on keeping them alive. What felt like days of sitting there working on them was really only a few hours. Time does something strange in moments like that—it stretches and blurs all at once. But eventually, the darkness started to lift, and the sun began to come up.

And somehow… they were standing.
Wobbly. Weak. But standing.

They  had no teeth and couldn’t suck, which meant everything was going to be harder. I looked at my daughter and told her the truth, even though I didn’t want to say it out loud:
“They might not make it. They’re just so small.”
But we weren’t done trying.

For the next 24 hours, we set alarms and took shifts. Every two hours, around the clock, we used a syringe to give them just a few drops of colostrum at a time. Slow and steady. Careful not to overwhelm them.
(I’m still not comfortable tube feeding yet, so this was the best we could do.)

Meanwhile, we made the decision to take T1 back out to Jane Doe. He was strong, alert, and already starting to figure out how to nurse. He had a real chance with his mom, and she needed at least one baby back with her.

Then there was T4.
The one we couldn’t save.
We brought him back out to Jane Doe so she could have that moment—to understand, to mourn in her own way. It’s one of the hardest parts of this life, but also one of the most important. Animals understand loss, and they deserve that closure just as much as we do. So we stood there quietly, giving her that time… while inside, two impossibly tiny babies were still fighting.
And we were right there with them.

These blog post about T2 and T3 will be continued.!  Please follow along to find out more about them.

#mjbackyardingwithkids #PleaseShare #countryliving #GoatLove #kiddingseason #thursday #babies

I always thought I was the one running the homestead.
Turns out, I was wrong.

Because apparently my goats have been holding secret meetings, studying engineering, and waiting patiently for the day they could overthrow the fence system and invade the cows’ territory like it was a buffet with no supervision.

It started like any normal day. Peaceful. Quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
You know that kind of quiet where your instincts immediately whisper, “Something is absolutely not okay.”

I was cleaning one of the chicken coops out, enjoying the sunshine.  When my daughter yelled  ” mom, the senior goats are in with Cain” I  looked out toward the pasture and there they were.

The goats were not where goats were supposed to be… me ugh.. why! Lol

They were VERY pleased with themselves.
Upon closer inspection,  my daughter discovered the crime scene. The hooks. The ones on the T-posts. The ones specifically designed to keep livestock contained.
Removed.
Not bent. Not broken. Not accidentally loosened.
Removed.

Like tiny furry hands had carefully unhooked them one by one while making direct eye contact with the fence.
This was not chaos.
This was strategy.

Somewhere along the line, one goat figured out that if you lift the hook just so, the fence politely gives up and opens like a door. And once one goat knew? Oh, the knowledge spread fast.

Suddenly the goats were in the cow area, sampling hay that was absolutely not theirs, strutting around like they had just won a lawsuit against me personally.
The cows, meanwhile, stood there looking deeply offended.

I imagine their internal dialogue went something like: “Excuse us? Do you have a reservation for this pasture?”
The goats ignored them entirely. They munched. They wandered. They acted like this had always been the plan.
The kids and I were  ready to restore order, the goats stared at me with faces that clearly said, “What? The fence was open.”
No remorse. No guilt. Just vibes.

My daughter fixed the hooks and Added extra security. While the boys and I kept the goats from trying to headbutt the cows. Although Cain just stood looking like well okay let’s go.

As always we gave a stern lecture as we got everyone back where they needed to be,  no one will take that seriously. Lol.

And as I walked away, I swear I heard a goat sigh dramatically—as if I was the unreasonable one in this situation.
So if anyone ever tells you goats are simple farm animals, please know this:
They are not dumb.  They are smart. They are not innocent. And they absolutely cannot be trusted around T-post hooks.

I don’t run this homestead.
I merely live here under goat management!

Thank you for reading, please share, follow, or like.

There are two kinds of people in the world:
Those who can sleep through a wind storm…

and those who spend the entire night convinced the house is about to pack up and move on without them.

I am the second kind.

Trying to sleep during a wind storm for my area  in Nevada is not sleeping. It’s lying very still while your brain conducts a full emergency preparedness drill at 2:17 a.m.

Wind Here: Quietly Unhinged

The  area where I live doesn’t always look windy. That’s how it gets you.

On a normal day, things seem calm enough. But when storms roll through, the wind can ramp up fast. Gusts of 45–60 mph aren’t unusual during strong systems, and during bigger events, winds can push into the 60–70 mph range.

Which means when the wind hits at night, it doesn’t politely announce itself. It shows up like it has a personal vendetta.

The Soundtrack of a Windy Night
The wind doesn’t just blow.
It howls.
It slams.
It tests every loose object you forgot to secure earlier that day.

Somewhere outside, a tree branch scrapes the house like it’s politely asking to come in. A mysterious metal object you don’t remember owning bangs rhythmically—just irregular enough to keep you awake. And every few minutes there’s a gust so strong your brain jumps straight to structural failure.

You pull the blankets up higher, as if cotton and optimism could protect you from 60-mile-per-hour gusts. Your eyes are closed, but your ears are working overtime.

You hear everything. The fence. The gutters. That one thud that makes you stare at the ceiling and think, Well. This is how it ends. You consider getting up to check outside—but that would require leaving the bed. And if something is wrong, you’d rather find out in the daylight with your tea and emotional support.

Instead, you lie there making mental notes:
Tomorrow: check the roof.
Tomorrow: check the animals.
Tomorrow: identify whatever keeps slamming into the side of the house.
Tomorrow: forgive the wind. Or don’t.

Just as you start to drift off, the wind hits the house sideways and you bolt awake, heart racing, fully prepared to grab nothing and panic efficiently.

Eventually—somewhere between “Is that thunder?” and “I swear the house just moved”—you fall asleep. Not because the wind stopped, but because your body simply gives up.

Morning arrives calm and almost offensive. The sky is blue. Everything is still standing. Nothing blew away. The wind, apparently satisfied with its performance, has moved on.
You, however, are exhausted.

Trying to sleep during a wind storm for my area isn’t about rest.
It’s about endurance.
And technically… you made it

Herbs are the overachievers of the garden world. They don’t need acres of space, fancy soil, or a long motivational speech. Most of them just want sunlight, a drink now and then, and for you to stop fussing so much.  And yet… they become favorites anyway.

What I Killed First

Let’s get this out of the way right now.
I killed mint.

Which feels almost impressive, considering mint is supposed to be unkillable. The kind of plant people warn you not to plant in the ground because it will take over your life.

Mine did not.

I overwatered it. Then forgot about it. Then put it somewhere “temporarily” and never moved it back.            Mint may be aggressive, but it is not immune to human chaos.
Mint: The One With No Boundaries (Except Apparently Mine)

In theory, mint is unstoppable. In reality, it wants decent drainage, sunlight, and a gardener who doesn’t change its living situation every three days.

When mint is happy, it’s fantastic—perfect for tea, desserts, and that smug feeling of having something green growing well.

When it’s not? It gives up quietly and leaves you questioning everything you’ve ever been told about gardening.

Basil: The Drama Queen

Basil redeemed itself by not being my first failure. It still demands warmth, sunlight, and consistent watering, but at least now I know not to smother it with attention.
When basil is happy, it grows fast and makes even the simplest meals feel intentional.

Rosemary: The Tough One

Rosemary thrives on neglect. It likes sun, dry soil, and a gardener who understands boundaries.It smells amazing, looks good year-round, and survives conditions that would emotionally devastate other herbs.

Thyme: The Quiet Achiever

Thyme doesn’t ask for much. It shows up every year, fills in spaces politely, and smells wonderful when brushed against.
It’s the herb that makes you feel like you know what you’re doing—even if you’re still winging it.

Why Herbs Are Always Worth It:
Herbs forgive mistakes. And when they don’t, they still teach you something—usually about drainage, patience, and not believing everything you read online.
They’re small wins you can harvest with scissors and use immediately.

No pressure, no perfection required. If you’re going to grow anything, grow herbs.
And if you manage to kill mint? Welcome to gardening. You’re officially one of us.

Thank you for reading,  if you would share, follow, and comment I would appreciate it.

Gardening is, at its core, an act of optimism. You take tiny seeds, bury them in the ground, and genuinely believe you’ll remember what you planted and where.         

Spoiler alert: you will not.

Still, there’s joy in it. Deep, muddy, sun-on-your-back joy.

Gardening slows you down whether you want it to or not. You can’t rush a seed, no matter how often you check on it. You water. You wait. You wonder if you’re doing it right. Then one day something sprouts, and suddenly you’re emotionally invested in a plant that didn’t exist last week. And then there’s the mystery phase of gardening.

At some point every season, something pops up and you think, Is this a vegetable? A flower? A weed that’s about to ruin my plans? The tag is gone. Your handwriting from early spring is now completely unrecognizable.

You stare at the plant like it might confess if you squint hard enough. You let it grow “just in case.” You water it. You defend it from being pulled. You emotionally support it.

Weeks later you either triumphantly announce, “I KNEW IT WAS A SQUASH,” or quietly accept that you’ve been lovingly nurturing a very healthy weed.

There’s also joy in the daily routines. Morning garden walks with tea checking on plants like they’re coworkers you don’t entirely trust. Noticing new leaves, blooms, or the first tomato that’s almost red but not quite, and deciding to check again in an hour….For research.

Gardening humbles you in ways nothing else can. One plant will thrive despite complete neglect, while another will perish even though you followed every rule and whispered encouragement. Gardening teaches you patience, resilience, and how to accept that sometimes nature simply has other plans.

And when harvest time comes?

That’s pure magic. Pulling food from the ground that you grew yourself feels like winning a very small, very personal lottery. It tastes better. It feels better.  It’s healthier for you. You’ll tell everyone about it, whether they asked or not.

But the real joy of gardening isn’t perfection or productivity. It’s the laughter when things go sideways, the quiet moments of tending something living, and the reminder that growth—like gardening—is messy, unpredictable, and absolutely worth it.

Even if you have no idea what half your garden is.

Thank you for reading,  if you would like, share, or comment I would appreciate it.

#gardening #work #takingcare #monday #livinghealthy #eatingbetter

Everyone has that one holiday they either absolutely love… or quietly dread.
Mine?

Thanksgiving and Valentine’s Day.

Thanksgiving, for a lot of people, comes with stress. Awkward family gatherings. Sitting next to someone you only tolerate once a year. Hours of cooking that somehow turns into exhaustion before the food even hits the table.

But for me? I love it.

Cooking a Thanksgiving meal honestly isn’t much different from cooking any other day around here. (Large family) What I love most is watching the kids’ faces when we add something new to the table. This past year, they requested my homemade mac and cheese—the real kind. Creamy, cheesy, made with love… and possibly judged very seriously by tiny critics.

Outside of our immediate family, we don’t have much extended family around, so there’s no pressure or stress. Just food, laughter, and the kind of chaos that feels good in your bones.

And then there’s Valentine’s Day.

I know, I know. You don’t need a holiday for someone to tell you they love you. And that’s true. But for me, Valentine’s Day isn’t about that. It’s about celebrating love itself. About being present with someone you care about—and who cares about you right back.

So while others are busy boycotting Valentine’s Day, I’ll be over here enjoying it… probably with my goats, a little chocolate, and a whole lot of gratitude.
Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone. ❤️

Lambing season has a way of humbling you fast.

One minute you’re feeling pretty confident, thinking, Wow, I’ve got this, and the next minute you’re staring at a situation that makes your stomach drop because—once again—the animals did not read the handbook.

This is the story of our breech lamb. And yes, it took at least five years off my life.
What “Breech” Actually Means (In Normal-People Terms)
A breech lamb is coming out backward instead of the nice, polite two-hooves-and-a-nose presentation everyone hopes for.

You might see:

Back legs

A tail

Hips hanging out like they pay rent

The danger with a breech birth is that once those hips are out, the umbilical cord can be compressed. Translation: you are officially on a time limit, and standing there saying “oh no” repeatedly does not help.

Our Real-Life Breech Experience
During our last lambing season, we had an ewe who went into labor and decided to get things started without me. By the time I got out there, she had already delivered her first lamb—a beautiful little ewe lamb—just perfect, up and thriving.

I was feeling pretty good about life. Then the ewe turned around, and that’s when I saw the second lamb being born breech.
Remember in my kidding season post when I said to make sure you can actually get to your medical bag quickly?

Yeah.
This is exactly why.

The lamb was coming out slowly—back legs, tail, and hips already hanging out. Mama was trying to lay down, and with that much lamb already outside, I didn’t want her accidentally laying on those back legs and causing even more problems.

As she started to go down, I supported the back end of the baby. Important note: I did not pull. She wasn’t ready to push yet, and pulling before a contraction can do real damage.

Then she gave one big push.
That’s when I pulled.
Baby was out.
And… nothing.
No movement.
No breathing.

What to Do When a Breech Lamb Isn’t Breathing
This is where knowing what to do—and having your supplies handy—matters.
Immediately:
Clear the nose and mouth
Use a bulb syringe to suction fluids

Rub vigorously to stimulate breathing and when I say vigorously, I mean like you are personally offended by this situation.
It felt like hours went by. The ewe looked at this baby, decided he wasn’t doing much at the moment, and went back to tending her other lamb. Honestly, fair.

I stayed with this baby, rubbing, suctioning, talking to him like that might help.
And finally—finally—he lifted his head and let out the loudest bleat for his mama.
I have never been so happy to hear someone yell.

“Won’t the Ewe Reject Him?”
You’ll hear people say that if you handle a lamb too much, the ewe won’t take it back because of your scent.
Let me tell you—this ewe did not care one bit.

The second she heard him cry, she came right over, nuzzled him, and cleaned him up the rest of the way like she’d been waiting for her cue. He nursed, bonded, and now walks around like nothing dramatic ever happened… while I’m still emotionally processing it.

What this breech birth taught me, always have your medical bag accessible.
Don’t pull unless the ewe is actively pushing breech births move fast once they move—be ready. Lambs are tougher than we give them credit for.

Ewes often know exactly what’s theirs, no matter how much help you gave.

The Takeaway

Breech births are stressful, messy, and absolutely not for the faint of heart. But with calm hands, basic knowledge, and a little stubborn determination, they can turn out just fine.

The ram lamb? Healthy.
Nursing.
Running around like he didn’t cause a full-blown emotional event.
And me?

I’ll just be over here reminding myself—once again—that homesteading is willingly signing up for moments you didn’t know your heart could handle, followed immediately by one that makes it all worth it. It’s straw in places it shouldn’t be, whispering “please breathe” to a lamb you already love, and then laughing at yourself once it’s over. It’s messy, loud, exhausting… and somehow the most meaningful, heart-full life I can imagine and yes, I know there will be births that don’t always have a happy ending, but when there is those are the ones you want to remember.

Thank you for reading, please share, follow, like, or comment.