Im tired.  Bone weary, eyes bleary kind of tired.  Mind fuzzy, can’t put a thought together tired.  You know the kind.  We all do.  I wore Willow on my back a few milking’s ago when it was hotter than a bread oven and the air was as still as a cup of water on the countertop.  Sweat didn’t drip off me, it came off in sheets.  The baby’s bare belly stuck to my tank top so tight I had to peel it off.  Flies were thick on Sorrel’s eyes while mine were left alone but stinging with hot salt.  I slugged the bucket up the hill, foamy milk sloshing from side to side, a tiny black dog hoping for a spill trailing behind me and I laughed a little.

It was just so evident at this very moment the choice we are making.  I could just go to the store and spend only a few dollars on milk, and while bacon isn’t cheap, surely it is easy.  Cast iron, sizzle pop, crunch.  No problem you’re doing just fine.

I laughed because even though all we do is a little crazy at times, it is always enjoyable.  I never regret having to do a single chore because I am so grateful to be able to do them.  My legs are strong, my milking hands are capable, my back has never, ever been more sturdy.  This work- it is good work.

And I believe I know four little wildlings who tend to agree.