Before any of the younger kids were stirring.
It was a peaceful time.
Just the farmer and the cows.
The afternoon milking, though was quite different.
Though the milker was still ensconced (real word) with the cows, the bustle of afternoon chores was going on all around.
Talk and laughter as the kids fed chickens and pigs.
Held buckets for the calves.
Opened and closed gates.
It was a busy, happy time.
And the baby generally was left with little to do.
Tristan was five.
He had helped feed.
And now was looking for Mom.
I should mention, here, that our little milk barn had two rooms.
One for the business part of the operation.
And a waiting room with a little pen.
I was milking Kitty.
One of our two gentle, little Jersey milk cows.
Bunny was in the outer room, already milked and patiently awaiting her freedom.
Tristan came into the barn.
"I'm here, sweetheart."
I could hear sounds of someone small climbing the gate of the pen.
"Can I wait here?"
"Sure, sweetie. I'll just be a minute."
A heavy sigh. "Okay."
"Did you help feed?"
"Yeah. Are you coming?"
Suddenly, "Mom! Mom!"
"What's the matter?"
"Mom! This cow is coming over!"
Cows are intensely curious. If something comes into their sphere, it needs to be investigated.
"She won't hurt you."
"Mom! She's getting closer!"
"She won't hurt you, sweetie!"
Then, indignantly, "Mom, she's getting sniff on me!"
If that's the worst that could happen . . .