Our first day of kidding season was both beautiful and hard.

I woke up to discover that my yearling Maggie was in labor.

Now, it was not my intent to breed this goat, but my buck had other ideas. And on one particular day about 145 days ago, he jumped his enclosure – electric fence and all. To say he flew like a reindeer is only kind of an exaggeration. I didn’t know goats could leap that high and that far until I saw it with my own eyes, and by the time I could get to him to put him back in his own pen, the deed had been done.

Goats being goats and doing what goats do… our little Magpie was pregnant.

So fast forward to yesterday… Maggie was in labor, and we’d have goat kids on the farm again. With excitement, we all began buzzing about, collecting kidding supplies, guessing how many kids Maggie would have. We got towels, the extra pine shavings, a Sharpie, and the kid “necklaces” for labeling birth order and dam.

Maggie labored until about 1 pm, and then we finally saw the tell-tale “bubble” that means a goat kid is about to make its debut.

A normal goat presentation is front hooves first. I saw a hoof. Just one. I thought the second would be forthcoming, but instead I saw a nose.

Not the end of the world, but I was a little nervous. Last year, I’d walked out to the barn, and there were the goat kids. Mamas had all kidded flawlessly and without complication or intervention.

This was not to be our fate today.

Had yesterday’s scenario played out a year ago, I don’t know if I’d have any goats at this point, because I may well have given up.

Maggie pushed and pushed, but she got to a point where she seemed stuck. Baby needed help.

Because one leg was out, I was able to gently pull on the presenting leg and guide baby out. It was a singlteton, which was what I was hoping against, because multiples would have meant smaller babies, making them easier to pass through the birth canal and out into the light of day.

But Maggie did great, and we have a doeling who looks just like her mama (and seems just as mouthy) to show for it. For the moment, she has been labeled R1 (R is ADGA’s 2023 letter for goat kid registration tattoos, and 1 is her birth order for our farm this year).

Around the same time that Maggie was showing signs of active labor, Killdeer was very much in labor as well. I thought, “Okay, now comes the easy part. Killdeer is an old pro. She knows what she’s doing, and she did this without any help last year. No problem.”

Killdeer labored for hours. Stomping, pawing, laying down, getting up, circling, grunting, stopping to eat, repeat. This is all typical goat labor behavior, but Maggie did none of this. Either she was completely bewildered by what was happening to her, or she just has a really high pain tolerance, because one minute Maggie was standing in the barn looking at me, and the next minute she was pushing out a kid. Killdeer’s experience was entirely different.

Hubby got home from work around 3:30/4:00, and Killdeer had still not kidded. I think at this point, in a human birth situation, this is where the doctor would opt for the C-section. Time was standing still, the sun was going down, and the temperature was dropping. What had been a lovely sunshine-filled day was becoming a frozen nighttime tundra.

The first sign of Killdeer’s first baby was a nose.

Crap.

I know that’s not eloquent, but that’s what went through my head.

There was no hoof in sight. Nothing but a nose. And every time Killdeer’s contraction would end, the baby goat would get sucked back inside, so I wasn’t able to grab a hold of anything to help it along.

Finally, out came the kid’s head, and it stayed out. A beautiful black face and nose, with white ears. A gorgeous goat.

Such a beautiful little goat.

And he was stuck.

What transpired next was nothing short of a miracle for me, because I realized that Killdeer needed intervention. Even though she was a pro. Even though she’d done this several times before.

Even though I had no practical experience.

I realized that this was my very first birthing experience where I wasn’t the one doing the birthing. In all my 38 years of life, I had never once witnessed the miracle of birth for myself on the part of spectator.

I’m sorry, Killdeer.

I had to reach inside Killdeer and feel for a hoof. The first time I was freaked out and couldn’t find anything. I was crying, ”I can’t do this.” Hubby said, “Try again.” Playing this over in my mind, it feels like a movie and so unreal. As though someone else were doing all of this and I were watching from a corner of the barn.

The only light we had at this point was from a lantern hanging in the barn and a flashlight clipped to the brim of Hubby’s hat.

This time I was able to find a foot and the leg it was attached to, and I managed to pull it out.

From there, I was able to get the second leg out as well, and baby came quickly after.

Baby hit the pine shavings and flopped over limp. The way his head had been hanging out of his mother, I already had a sinking feeling, but now I was able to confirm what I had feared.

Stillborn.

This explained why the labor and delivery had been so long and so rough for Killdeer.

I don’t know what happened. He was small but looked like a full term kid. He must have died the day before or maybe even that morning. He looked as though he could have taken a breath at any moment and was just sleeping.

I could have sat there and cried over this poor, sweet goat, but there wasn’t time, because another baby was on the heels of the first.

A doeling. Alive.

Small, but alive.

We wrapped her in a towel and rushed her inside. It was already well past dark by this point, and I was freezing. We had to get baby dry, warm, and fed.

Another 20 minutes passed, and nothing else was happening. Either another kid (which I expected) or the placenta was next, and neither were coming.

There was a moment where I looked at Killdeer and thought, “I’m going to lose her.” She just didn’t look great. Obviously, she was exhausted, and maybe it was simply my emotional state, but I had a sinking feeling in my gut that something else could be wrong.

My thoughts: “If it’s just a placenta, then that will come soon, but if it’s a kid, I think too much time has passed. Goat kids tend to come in rapid succession. It’s been too long. I’m scared.”

Killdeer was standing there, not contracting, not laboring, nothing. Just standing there. Exhausted. Her head drooped. She was spent. This was nothing like last year where I went out to the barn, and there she was, standing in the barn with three goat kids at her feet, looking at me as though nothing had happened. It was just another day for her that day; she had made it look easy.

At this point, scenarios were playing through my mind, with all the possibilities. It was too late to rush her to the goat vet, and she would likely die before we could get her to an emergency vet. And even if we could make it in time, how would we move this exhausted, labor-stalled, 130-pound goat out of the barn, across the pasture and yard, and into the van? That wouldn’t work. A C-section was out of the question, for so many obvious reasons – the biggest one being that I am not a doctor, but also, it was dark outside, and I didn’t even have the proper tools for doing such a thing anyway.

No vet. No surgery. I had no way of getting her labor to move, no way of getting the kid out. We were stuck. Helpless.

I don’t know how many times over these last few years we have felt stuck, utterly helpless, and without answers, but when those times have come about, there’s only one thing we can do. And we chose to do that now.

We started to pray out loud over this sweet goat. We said, “God, we know she’s just a goat, but we know You care about her. Please help her!” It was as simple and heartfelt and honest as that.

Within two minutes, we saw Killdeer have one more contraction and a large bubble come out, and as it popped, a third and final baby goat slid to the pine shavings below.

Shocked. Elated.

I thought surely the kid was stillborn like the first, but at least Killdeer would live. I rushed to the baby, and it was still encased in its sac. I scooped it up and pulled away the goo from its face. Movement. A breath.

Alive.

I cried out, “Thank You, Jesus!” It was a celebration and an outpouring of gratitude for God’s intervention for our sweet mama goat. And for her two living kids. And for us.

We now have three doelings in our living room, dry, warm, and fed. All beautiful. All just as sweet as can be.

Yesterday was exhausting. It was, as they say, a day. It was hard. But it was beautiful.

The verse that came to my mind last night as I was processing the day was this: “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” Job 1:21

Yesterday we lost a baby goat, but we also gained three new doelings, and we saved both of the mothers. Had we not been home for these kiddings, we certainly would have lost Killdeer and all three kids. And we may have lost Maggie and her kid, as well.

I’m thankful for beautiful days, even when they have hard mixed in.