Growing up Jewish, my sister and I had no idea the excitement or anticipation kids get on Christmas morning. Sometimes my friends would tell me they wished I could experience it, that they felt bad because I was missing out. When I discovered my love for goats I also discovered my own Christmas Morning. It’s spring time, when you wake up the birds out side your window are shrill and their songs piercingly sharp. The cut grass tingles your nose and the sky is light blue, bright and still a little cold. I have counted the days, marked them on the calendar. 5 months, 152 days. I have counted and recounted making sure I am right. and now as the final days approach, my anticipation grows and grows. 149, 151, 152. The best part about my goat Christmas, my Goatmas, is that I get the excitement of not knowing which morning my presents will arrive, its a surprise. For a week I run down the hill, tripping over my boots and the bottom of my overalls, through the gate and into the barn, waiting for the day that I hear that tiny bleat of a baby goat. The joy and delight of finding baby goats in the morning is one that has no words to describe it. My Christmas morning may be different than the rest of the worlds, but I still wait all year to see the presents.
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