🎶“Wake up (wake up) / Grab a brush and put a little makeup”🎶
5:20AM
I wake up either to the sound of my husband starting his day or to my Spotify playlist, aptly titled “Wake Me Up.”
Or—honestly—I wake up on my own at 4-something…just for fun, I guess.
6:00AM
Bible Reading: The Bible Recap (journal + podcast) and the ACTS Prayer Method—journaled on my Kindle Scribe (one of my favorite purchases ever).
Sometimes this happens before 5:00AM and I use this hour and a half to write instead.
7:30AM (ish)
Let it be known: all times here are very approximate. I am frequently running behind my “ideal” schedule.
I mix up 1.5 cups of milk replacer into 24oz of warm tap water and divide it among three dollar store bottles. Then I grab one child—two or even all three if I’m lucky—and we carefully let the lambs out of their enclosure
They are, without exception, launching themselves into the air like absolute psychos because they have exactly zero patience for breakfast.
Next up, we head to the old sheep shed, currently serving as an extra large brooder. We unclog the waterers (usually full of pine shavings…and other things—just kidding, it’s poop) and top off the feeder with all-flock crumbles.
Then we walk up the driveway to the bird run, collect eggs, and let the flock out to free range—while praying the hawks don’t grab (too many of) our younger chickens.
8:30AM
Finally, breakfast and Bible time.
We make bowls of Monster Mash, gather around the table and listen to Simon Bubb read Scripture on the Bible app. Then we switch over to Spotify for The Bible Recap. We close by sharing our prayer requests and praying together.
9:00AM
Time to “start school”… even though we’re already about an hour and a half in.
We read aloud from our Gather Round’s Teacher’s Guide—currently alternating between Vikings and Transportation.
10:00AM
My youngest—who has been waiting somewhat less than patiently—finally gets her turn.
We go through her Gather Round guide (Letters and Numbers 2: On the Farm) and I help her complete her notebook pages while the older two work independently.
10:30AM
By now—after animal care, breakfast, and school—I am…dysregulated.
So I step outside to our home gym and row for 15-20 minutes, plus some stretching. It’s a great reset when I can make it happen and makes an enormous difference in my attitude.
12:00PM
Lunchtime. We regroup, eat together, and watch a show in the living room—currently, it’s Big City Greens.
12:30PM
Round two of bottles for the lambs.
1:00PM
This block is pure gold: introvert time.
The kids usually choose screens or head outside. I read, write, or watch something. Everyone gets space—and it’s glorious. A much-needed chance to recharge.
3:00PM
Quick pre-workout snack and get ready for the gym.
3:30PM
Family workout time. We warm up, then lift or do a CrossFit-style workout, depending on our programming—currently Hard to Kill by Garage Gym Athlete.
5:30PM
Protein shakes, showers, and transition into evening mode.
6:00PM
Dinner + a show together, then we all drift off into our separate corners of the house. We are a deeply introverted family, so alone time is essential.
7:30PM
Evening animal routine:
Birds go up in the run
Lambs get their final bottles and are tucked in
The dog is finally released to burn off a full day of stored energy
8:00PM
I read to my youngest while we get her ready for bed.
If I’m lucky, I sneak in a bit of my own reading—but lights are typically out by 8:30–9:00 PM (10:00 if sleep is being difficult), because morning comes quickly.
If I’m honest, these days are a lot. They’re full—chaotic, beautiful, overwhelming, and frustrating. And I wouldn’t trade them for the world.
God is using the mundane repetition of caring for these animals to shape our hearts, grow our capacity, expand our knowledge, and deepen our understanding.
As my sister-in-law says, “by faith” we carry on with our daily tasks—committing the work of our hands to the Lord and trusting that He is accomplishing His will in us and through us.
Any runner will tell you that the first mile is a Liar.
There is something about that first mile that cues the body to sound every alarm. Your breathing is off, your stride is off, and your thoughts begin to rebel.
So you quit.
Or you keep going, because you remember: the first mile is a Liar—and mile two gets better.
So, too, my first week with three bottle-fed lambs was a Liar.
As waves of panic slammed into me again and again, I found myself tempted to sell animals left and right. The logic was simple: fewer animals would bring me back within my capacity and restore my peace.
But the Truth was, it wasn’t the animals.
It was my nervous system, which simply needed time—and steady routines—to settle. My capacity could and would grow. But a rash decision—one I might later regret—would only multiple problems down the road.
As I battled the warring thoughts between what I believed was my calling and the temptation to throw it all away, I finally broke down and sought my husband’s counsel. I admitted that perhaps I had made a mistake. Perhaps I had gone one step too far in saying yes. Perhaps I truly had bitten off more than I could chew.
I had prayed extensively before deciding to bring home two bottle-fed lambs. But what if I had been wrong? What if these lambs weren’t meant for us after all?
My husband, wisely, told me to give it a week before making any changes.
Smart man.
He also made one thing very clear: I would not be doing this alone.
Last spring, I had the full support of our family—emotionally and physically. This year was different. I was carrying guilt, my middle child was sick, and much of the weight had quietly shifted onto my shoulders.
So, I gave it a week.
I asked my children for help, even as my anxiety flared. I submitted myself to the daily rhythms and let them do their quiet work on my nervous system.
A week later, the lambs had names—a sure sign they were here to stay. The panic loosened its grip. The guilt began to fall away layer by layer. The anxiety softened.
And in its place, something steady took root.
Peace.
The ground beneath me felt firm again. I didn’t know what the future held, but for that moment, it was enough.
I had found peace.
I had found my rhythm and my nervous system was finally catching up.
Then came the next challenge: leaving the flocks behind while we traveled to visit our family on their farm.
Now that we’d learned (the hard way) that the proper ratio of drakes to ducks is about 1:6 or 1:8—and that my family could safely enjoy cooking duck eggs around me without triggering an allergic reaction—we decided it was time to maximize our duck egg production.
At the time, our duck gang consisted of one drake and three females, so we were ready to add another three to five ducks.
We didn’t want to buy straight run again—with our luck, we would end up with a bunch of drakes—but after checking prices at a local store and seeing that female ducks were twenty dollars apiece, we didn’t want to go that route either.
So, we decided to invest in an incubator.
For roughly the cost of four female ducks, we could hatch our own eggs, turn the whole thing into a hands-on science project, and sell or give away any ducks beyond our capacity.
I even turned to ChatGPT to figure out how many eggs to incubate to statistically land in that three-to-five female range.
Then a friend mentioned she’d love a few females, too, so our goal shifted to five to eight ducks total—which meant we might as well fill up the incubator’s eighteen-egg capacity.
So we did.
For the next seven days, we collected our usual three eggs a day—though, of course, this was the week one duck decided to skip two days. It took the full week to gather all eighteen.
Finally, on March 18, it was time.
My husband set up the incubator, filled the water reservoir, and dialed everything in: 99.5°F and about 50% humidity.
And then…we waited.
We checked (most) every day, ensuring the temperature and humidity held steady and, perhaps most importantly, that the incubator was still plugged in and running.
We had opted for the incubator with automatic turning so it was fun to watch the plate carefully rotate, turning each egg every couple of hours.
A couple weeks in, we left for an out-of-state trip to visit family. The timing wasn’t ideal as far as these little eggs went, but a friend (the same one hoping for a few ducks) graciously agreed to check on the incubator daily—monitoring temperature, humidity, and power. (More on that trip coming later in May.)
We came home on Saturday, April 11 to find that the incubator had entered lockdown right on schedule—no more turning—and one of the eggs was rocking!
It was time to crank up the humidity. My son filled both water reservoirs, aiming 65%-75% humidity now—and we began watching closely for pipping: the first visible cracks as a duckling begins to break through the shell.
On Sunday, three eggs were rocking, but there were still no visible cracks.
By Tuesday, we spotted them: tiny punctures and hairline fractures in at least four eggs. Progress. Slow, but unmistakable.
By Wednesday morning…not much had changed. Plenty of pips, but no hatches yet, and I was starting to get nervous.
Then shortly after noon, my younger son and I heard it.
“Pss, pss.”
We looked at each other.
It sounded exactly like our little gosling—but I was pretty sure he’d been put back out in the shed. My son looked just as confused…and then suddenly took off running.
Seconds later, he came flying back across the house, feet pounding against the floor.
“Mom! It’s a duckling!! You have to come see!”
Well, that got me moving.
My daughter and I raced across the house, following him to the incubator.
And there it was.
Our first duckling.
It was absolutely surreal. The miracle of life is astounding every single time. It never gets old.
By bedtime, two more had joined it. By morning, the number had doubled.
Six ducklings. Wow.
The hardest part, honestly, was leaving them in the incubator long enough to fully dry and steady themselves. But by then, the first three were ready for the brooder, so my husband briefly opened the incubator for me to move them. The other three stayed behind to finish drying and gain strength.
And then we waited again.
Eleven eggs remained.
Statistically, we expected to lose three to five—but that still left a likely six to eight more.
Over the course of the day, two more ducklings hatched. By bedtime on Day 2, we had eight ducklings—plus one very large gosling—in the brooder.
Overnight, I was surprised to find that no more had hatched. We’d seen pipping in at least seven eggs, and a couple looked especially promising.
But by 9AM, two more were fully out, with another two well on their way.
At 10:30AM, I checked again—only to find a surprise third duckling, from neither of the eggs I had been watching most closely.
By evening, duckling number twelve had hatched.
Another one looked close behind, so we left all four remaining ducklings in the incubator overnight to avoid disrupting the process.
By the morning of Day 4, though, it still had not fully hatched. It was clearly trying—but making slow progress.
That day, we had family coming over, and our house was…well, smelly. The children were tasked with moving the eight ducklings and the gosling from the indoor brooder to the outdoor one—as well as airing out the house.
By late afternoon,we were getting concerned. The struggling duckling seemed to be exhausting itself.
My sister-in-law—who has experience hatching chicks—offered to help.
So we opened the incubator and she showed me what to do.
First, we removed the four ducklings who had been not-so-patiently waiting their turn for the brooder. I had hoped their presence might encourage the struggling one, but at this point, they needed space—and access to food and water.
Then she carefully wrapped the duckling in a warm, damp towel and gently flaked away loose shell, being careful not to disturb the inner membrane.
We placed it back in the incubator and watched closely.
Later, when it was still struggling, we repeated the process—this time, returning it with a warm, damp washcloth to help keep things from drying out.
Finally, the little duckling freed itself.
But it was exhausted.
Its legs were stiff and weak. I knew it wasn’t out of the woods yet.
There wasn’t much left to do but wait. My husband even tried to help it stand once—but it immediately toppled over.
On Day 5—Sunday—I woke up at 4AM.
I tried to go back to sleep, but to no avail, so I went to check on the ducklings.
The four in the indoor brooder were doing just fine—though my sudden appearance sent them scrambling (or rather, waddling) behind the waterer.
I braced myself as I walked to the incubator and flipped on the kitchen light.
The duckling was still.
I sighed.
Then it moved.
Within minutes of me talking to it, it began to sit up and shift around. Its legs were still weak, but it was still trying. Still fighting.
I noticed it wasn’t very dry or fluffy—but as I stood there, it began to fluff up more and more.
I decided that once the sun came up, I’d move the indoor ducklings outside to join the others—and then give the struggling one a space of its own.
The next 12 hours would be very telling.
Would it get stronger?
Or would it fail to thrive?
I had done everything I knew to do.
Meanwhile, four eggs still remained in the incubator. We’d seen two of them rocking the night before, so I wasn’t ready to give up hope—but as time passed with no visible progress, that hope started to fade.
Later that morning, during chores, I made a different call.
I moved it into the indoor brooder—with the others.
We were nearby and could keep a close eye on them, and I hoped the company might help.
It did.
As I watched it stumble after the others, trying so hard to keep up, I realized I had lost track somewhere along the way. I had gotten it into my head that this was duckling number twelve—but it wasn’t.
It was #13.
Of course it was.
The one that struggled. The one that almost didn’t make it. The one that still might not.
And yet…against the odds, it had made it this far.
And I decided it was lucky.
Lucky 13.
Before we left for church, though, we separated them again—moving the group outside and leaving Lucky 13 alone inside so it wouldn’t be at risk without supervision.
When we got home, we checked on Lucky 13.
It was sitting more than standing—still weak—but alert…and very, very lonely.
It called and called for the others.
So, against the usual advice, we made the call.
We moved Lucky 13 in with its hatchmates.
It was exactly what it needed.
It lagged behind, but it followed them everywhere—and slowly, steadily, its legs grew stronger.
At the same time, we checked the remaining four eggs.
There had been no progress.
As much as I hated it, it was time to accept the truth: these weren’t viable.
Cleaning out the incubator was, without question, the worst part of the entire process—and I am very grateful my husband took on that job.
Now, with the incubator stored away for a future season and the indoor brooder packed up, the house feels more open…and a lot quieter.
What a ride.
In just one month, we went from collecting eggs to watching thirteen little lives begin—right in front of us.
Then on Monday afternoon, as I did the rounds to check on the animals, I saw that Lucky 13 had taken a downturn.
Not long after, our gosling sounded the alarm, calling out until we came, to let us know that Lucky 13 didn’t make it.
He fought hard, but this is part of hatching too, sometimes.
It’s easy to get weighed down by the sadness.
But just outside, twelve little ducklings—and their gosling protector—are thriving.
Everywhere he leads, they follow—and come naptime, they gather into a soft, downy heap, sometimes even sleeping on top of him.
And somehow, life marches on.
Just like that, spring is in full swing—and I’ll give you a glimpse of what that looks like in A Day in the Life – Spring Edition, coming May 12.
We’d brought Ron home…along with the unexpected addition of Hermione and Ginny. We were all set to welcome Harry home in a couple months.
But first, one important thing had to happen: banding Ron.
I had read quite a bit about the best way to render him a wether. Everyone seemed to agree that banding was safe and simple to do ourselves. And while everyone agreed it should be done as soon as possible, the exact timing? That was another story.
At birth!
No, at one week!
Eh, anywhere between one and two weeks.
Dude, as long as it’s before three months old, you’re fine.
Since we were bringing Ron home at ten days old, I figured we’d band him within a few days.
That is not what happened.
First, I brought home two newborn lambs. Then I learned that the CDT vaccine should be given at or before the time of banding.
So even though I’d already purchased the rudimentary banding tool—complete with one hundred bands (ha!)—we couldn’t move forward just yet.
Then came the week of panic attacks.
And that is how we found ourselves on the eve of my birthday, nearly two weeks after bringing Ron home, with him still unbanded.
So for my birthday, I made a simple request: the day before, we’d pick up the CDT vaccine, and the morning of my 39th birthday, we’d take care of a few things—fortify the sheep enclosure against the north wind and band Ron.
My husband and two oldest children woke up early, made a Lowe’s run for plywood, and grabbed breakfast on the way home. They measured twice, cut once, and installed the plywood on the north side of the enclosure.
Then it was time to catch Ron.
I picked him up and handed him to my husband, who held him securely in his lap while administering the CDT vaccine.
Then came the not-so-fun part.
We prepared the tool and band. My children and I gently kept Ron still, and a moment later, it was done.
My husband set him back on the ground, and Ron came straight to me with the saddest eyes. I apologized profusely, even as I reminded myself why we were doing this. We wanted to avoid repeating our experience with Vlad. A little pain now would, hopefully, mean less pain later.
We felt terrible. Ron was clearly uncomfortable for the first few hours. We gathered all three sheep into their enclosure with fresh water, feed, and hay, and gave him space to settle.
Then we left to celebrate my birthday properly—with bowling and a movie.
By the time we returned home, Ron was back to his old self…though admittedly, a bit more standoffish.
I may have been plum crazy to take on two newborn lambs in the midst of everything else I was juggling.
Honestly, the connection wasn’t immediate. With the panic attacks I was having, it took about a week for me to really engage with them and begin to bond.
But once I did, these two little girls stole my heart completely.
Ginny
Ginny is a beautiful copper ewe lamb with the sweetest personality.
She follows us wherever we go, preferring our company over the other sheep. Quiet and gentle, she even enjoys being picked up and cuddled.
Why Ginny?
We already had our Harry and Ron, and as I mentioned in Plum Crazy, I was on the lookout for a red ewe lamb to be our Ginny. This little girl is exactly what I had envisioned.
Hermione
Hermione is a cute little ewe lamb with auburn hair and a few white patches sprinkled across her coat. Her striking light blue eyes highlight that eerie rectangle-shaped pupil sheep are known for.
As surprising as it sounds, she and Ron are already the best of friends, following each other everywhere, and frankly, preferring each other’s company over ours. She does, however, enjoy the occasional pet—which is more than I can say for Ron right now (stay tuned for Banded for Life, coming May 2).
Why Hermione?
Before these two arrived, I had been in contact with the breeder from whom we had bought Cho, Luna, and Vlad, hoping to add a couple girls to our flock. She showed me an adorable dark reddish-brown ewe lamb, and I immediately thought, “Hermione.” I promptly placed her on hold to pick her up once she weaned, around the same time we would be getting Harry.
Then, unexpectedly, we had the opportunity to pick up these two little girls at only one day old. Naming new animals is one of my absolute favorite parts of welcoming them, but with the intense panic attacks I was experiencing, I couldn’t engage with the future long enough to say their names out loud—though I knew in my heart what they would be.
This little girl reminded me so much of the ewe lamb I had placed on hold, whispering, “Hermione.” I said nothing to my family at first, but within a week, my middle child began calling her Hermione, saying with a shrug, that she just looked like one.
Soon, the whole family joined in and I finally relaxed. She was our Hermione through and through—and her tight-knit friendship with Ron only confirms it.
Life with Ginny and Hermione is full of surprises and joy—there’s never a dull moment!
And just when the rhythm starts to feel familiar, subtle shifts bring new waves of change.
Because apparently this season of life needed… even more babies.
“What was I thinking?” raced through my mind on repeat, matching the pounding of my heart.
Deep breaths and desperate prayers were all that kept me afloat in the storm raging inside me.
Like Peter, at first courageous, eyes on Jesus, walking on water—then suddenly fearful and sinking—I cried from the depths of my soul:
“Lord, save me!”
What had induced such overwhelming panic?
Too many changes too quickly. My nervous system thrives on predictability, with just a sprinkle of novelty—but the past week’s demands had exceeded my capacity.
It screamed for relief, yet I didn’t have peace about changing anything. I did have peace about each thing I’d already taken on.
And yet, here I was, shaking with fear, simply needing to survive each wave as it crashed over me.
This spring has already been a lot.
We added more baby chicks than I’m willing to admit—hello, chicken math—a duckling, and we’ve been collecting duck eggs to incubate. Not long before, I picked up Ron and began bottle-feeding him.
I’d been watching for a red ewe lamb, hoping to add one to our flock around the time we would be getting Harry.
Then, out of the blue, not one but two newborn bottle-fed red ewe lambs from the same breeder we got Vlad, Cho, and Luna from last spring were offered to me at a great price.
I began to pray over whether to bring these two lambs home.
As I prayed over whether to say yes or no to the two ewe lambs, I was reminded by Tara-Leigh Cobble with The Bible Recap: trust in God for His protection and provision—not in what we can acquire ourselves.
The timing? Not great. My schedule was jam-packed, my nervous system fried. And yet, I felt a gravitational pull toward saying yes.
On a day already overflowing with responsibilities, after a string of overly-full days that left me depleted… I said a scared yes. I chose to trust. I drove the hour and a half, my youngest in tow, and picked up the two ewe lambs—barely twenty-four hours old.
Cue the panic attacks. Not because my faith had failed, but because my body was responding to cumulative stress and sudden change. Even stepping out in trust, saying yes to God’s calling, my nervous system didn’t simply accept the change quietly.
Instead, it sounded the alarms—loudly, wave after wave—reminding me to heed my very real limits.
The addition of two newborn lambs tipped the scales atop an already full life: caring for so many animals, navigating the challenges of three children in three very different stages of life, and the cumulative wear on my body and mind—all combined to amplify the intensity.
My nervous system wasn’t telling the whole story, but it demanded that I honor its needs.
I don’t remember when I had my first panic attack—before age six, for sure—but I learned early to b r e a t h e : slow, deep, deliberate breaths; to recite Scripture; to sing hymns on repeat.
I reached once again toward these familiar Scriptures and hymns, anchors that held me steady while the waves of panic knocked me sideways again and again.
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.” – Psalm 23:1
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” – 2 Timothy 1:7
🎶 “Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him! How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er. Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus! O for grace to trust Him more!” 🎶 – ‘Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.” – Proverbs 3:5-6
“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” – Hebrews 11:1
Faith that sees every piece of the puzzle is no faith at all.
I felt like Indiana Jones standing on the edge of a cliff, holding my breath, taking a step of faith, and hoping against hope that the bridge was there.
I still don’t know how this will turn out. I cannot see the path ahead. Perhaps I am just plum crazy.
Or perhaps God has a plan for His glory and my good.
For now, I’m just hanging on and riding the waves.
“You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you.” – Isaiah 26:3
The journey continues on May 2 with Banded for Life.
The Christmas lights were twinkling as I sang along to my favorite Christmas song.
🎶 “For his naughty dog…” 🎶
I’m not sure how old I was when I realized this beloved Christmas song was actually in Spanish—and called Feliz Navidad. Facepalm. It’s still one of my favorites, although now I sing the correct lyrics.
Once our oldest got the official word that we were moving to five acres, he immediately began asking for a dog.
Less than a month after closing, he had picked out an adorable little puppy—half Great Pyrenees, half Catahoula Leopard Dog— promising to be a wonderful livestock guardian dog.
Well…this sweet, big ol’ Good Boy is also a very naughty boy.
Having owned a Catahoula Leopard Dog before and being well-acquainted with their good-natured chaos, we were skeptical—but hoped the Great Pyrenees would bring balance to the Force…
It did not.
Instead, my oldest shovels the displaced dirt back into the holes, and our “livestock guardian” remains on a carefully managed schedule—part inmate, part agent of chaos.
🎶 “For his naughty dog…” 🎶
He doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his body.
And yet…his chase instinct wins out every time when presented with a startled bird—
or lamb.
At least three of our chickens have met an untimely end because of it.
So, like any well-run prison, we rotate Yard Time. During the day, this Naughty Dog has his privileges revoked so that the chicken ladies and duck gang can range freely.
This week’s offense?
Digging under the sheep enclosure.
In an apparent attempt to “help” everyone socialize…temptation won out.
Look at that guilty face…
🎶 “For his naughty dog…” 🎶
I have a feeling this line will be stuck in my head again soon.
So, now you’ve met the dog here at Potter’s Sheep.
The week went by faster than I’d imagined. Before I knew it, it was time to bring Ron home.
Our friends were on spring break, and we were taking care of their animals morning and evening—a trade we do a couple of times a year whenever one of us is out of town.
It was also my husband’s birthday, and Life has a way of putting a damper on his special day.
This year, I was determined to fiercely guard it from chaos.
So, we decided Ron would stay at our friends’ house for the time being. We’d make one extra trip for his midday bottle, then bring him home later that weekend.
But when we came by that evening to care for the animals, everything felt right. My husband’s birthday had gone smoothly—hallelujah!—and we decided it was time to bring Ron home.
However, we were completely unprepared for transporting him.
Since he was only a tiny one-week-old lamb, we borrowed a towel from our friends, and my oldest held him for the short ride.
The new sheep enclosure wasn’t fully fortified against the north wind yet, so we kept him in a dog crate in our laundry room for the first few nights.
Watching his little hooves slip and slide on the laminate floor was like seeing Bambi on ice, and of course, he promptly peed. We laughed at the tiny chaos already following him around.
I remembered seeing others using diapers on newborn lambs and, thanks to some cloth diapers from our children’s baby days, I gave it a try.
He wriggled, kicked, and balanced on his two front legs, trying everything to escape. Eventually, he won—so the diapers were a lost cause. Thankfully, we only ended up with a few puddles to clean up.
I set up his crate with towels, a mirror, and a stuffed lamb for comfort—a tip I’d read about for a lone lamb. Sheep aren’t meant to be alone, and the mirror and toy seemed to help him feel safe.
As I mixed up that first bottle, the smell of milk replacer instantly transported me back to last spring, feeding Vlad, Cho, and Luna.
That evening, everything felt quiet and smooth.
He adjusted quickly, and soon we were back in the rhythm of three bottles a day, leading him outside to the enclosure, and bringing him back to the crate overnight. He learned to follow us whenever we were outside, explored safely, and even met the other animals.
Already, it was clear this little lamb had a personality all his own—bold, curious, and a little mischievous.
I couldn’t believe we were doing it again.
Only a month after selling our first three sheep, here we were with a new little lamb—and his brother was on the way in just a couple months.
Just as I began to catch my breath, everything shifted again: two new little faces were on their way.
The choice had been made: one breeding ram and one wether companion.
Just like that, we had our boys—and it didn’t take long before they earned their names…
Harry
Our breeding ram, Harry, is big and strong, with a sleek coat of deepest black and two short white socks on his back feet. He loves running, jumping, and pestering Luna for fun—or his mama for milk. He’s already beginning to graze, faithfully following Cho and Luna around every day.
Why “Harry”?
Potter’s Sheep was getting a fresh start—and suddenly the name just felt right.
Harry.
A little boy with black hair—loved fiercely by his mama.
Ron
Harry’s soon-to-be wether companion, Ron, is much smaller than Harry—but don’t let that fool you. This little stinker is full of mischief, frequently trying to steal our two ewe lambs’ bottles.
He loves to run and do little sideways jumps, as if clicking his heels together mid-air. He’s eager to play, though the girls aren’t quite ready for his roughhousing antics. And he learned to follow quickly—every time I think I’ve lost him, I look down, and sure enough, he’s sticking to me like Velcro.
Why “Ron”?
Well, both my friend’s family and our family thought “Ron” the moment we saw him. He’s a red ram—clearly a Weasley—and…how do I say this gently?…he has…mommy issues…just like his namesake. My favorite thing so far is to sing out a sharp, “Ronald Weasley!” in my best Molly Weasley voice whenever he’s being a stinker.
And really—does it get any more ride-or-die than Ron Weasely? I have a feeling this one’s going to keep us on our toes.
One little ram lamb was red and white and tiny and…Cho rejected him.
My friend quickly put him on a bottle, ensuring he received the much-needed colostrum and was protected from Cho’s very clear communication that she would not be raising him—it’s not uncommon for first-time sheep mamas to be overwhelmed at the prospect of caring for twins and to reject the smaller one.
The other little ram lamb was much bigger—a beautiful, sleek black with white socks on his back feet. Cho was taking great care of him.
They were both so adorable and it seemed impossible to choose.
As I reflected on our experience with Vlad and did more research, the choice became clearer. The black ram lamb was obviously bigger and stronger, and being raised by his mama made him far less likely to become aggressive like Vlad had. He was the obvious candidate for a future breeding ram.
I felt at peace with my choice—and still a little disappointed, because the red and white ram was adorable, too.
So, I researched a bit more.
Being bottle-fed meant he had a higher chance of becoming aggressive. Without naturally learning respect from his mama, he might one day see us as peers—something to challenge rather than to trust. Banding, however, would significantly reduce that risk. And I discovered something else: if the black lamb had a wether companion, it could also reduce his likelihood of becoming aggressive.
No way…could we really have them both?
So I talked to my husband. I explained what I’d read. I checked with my friend to see if she was planning to keep the one we didn’t choose…
And as it turned out—we could have both ram lambs.
What a beautiful bridge between our first flock and our second.
A breeding ram and a wether companion.
One we would pick up when he weaned in a few months…
Potter's Sheep 