I never did care much for this part.

For months I raised them. Fed them every day, made sure they had fresh water, talked to them. I helped in the barn – clipping tails, trimming hoofs and shearing wool. Most of my “help” was standing around watching and handing tools to my dad or Uncle Scott. But I was there.

As we got closer to “The Fair” the work intensified. There were earlier mornings walking lambs around the pasture or in and out the long dirt road. There were weekends spent at Grandma and Pap’s farm. There were lunch meat sandwiches, chips from the top pantry cabinet and Dr. Pepper. There were water fights with hoses when we were supposed to be washing the animals. 

Fair week was early mornings, hot afternoons and late nights; competitions for the title of best showman or grand champion; tight jeans, ponytails and heavy boots. 

And then the week ended with the livestock sale. 

My brother was young. Maybe 5 or 6? I would have been 13 or 14. And “Blackie” was my lamb, my entry into that year’s fair.

Except she was Kyler’s lamb.  He walked her in the mornings. He hugged her neck. He brushed her black wool. 

He was devastated to find out she would be part of the sale.

For days, my mom, family and friends connived and schemed to find a way for us to be allowed to keep this lamb for my little brother. As the top finisher in her class, the lamb was destined to be walked into that show arena on Saturday morning. So they went to work.  They talked to local businesses, as they were often the buyers at the sale, bargained that if they bought Blackie, we would trade them for a different animal. Any lamb they wanted from our small farm. 

But there are no guarantees at an auction.

The morning of the sale, there were butterflies in my stomach. Well past the age and stage where I got attached to the animals, I knew the butterflies were because of my little brother’s pain.

Before the sale started, he offered me his life savings – all four dollars of it – to buy the animal on the spot.

My heart broke a little bit more. My mom fought tears. My dad sighed. 

This is all part of raising livestock. The selling part.

But this time, there was a little boy with sandy brown hair, clinging to his mother. He buried his nose into her shoulder,  letting his tears wet her shirt, as the auctioneer announced my name, the weight of the animal and started the bidding. 

“Gimme-two-two-two. Gimme-two-dollars-a-pound. I’ve-got-two. Gimme-two-twenty-five. Two-twenty-five. Two-twenty-five.”

The boy cried.

The mother cried.

I cried.

The light purple ribbon fell from the lamb’s neck as I tried to watch see who was raising their numbered paddles. Begging the buyers we knew with my eyes, “Please win. Please keep bidding. Please.”

The auctioneer kept going. Three dollars a pound. Then four.

The words swirled around me, alone in the show ring with my animal, as time slowed and everything blurred. 

“SOLD!”

 With the bang of a gavel and a blink, it was over and the winning bidder was announced.

Frantically, we searched the crowd.  Who had just bought this lamb? Would it be someone who would understand a preschooler’s attachment to a farm animal and give her back? 

It was Uncle Roy, my great uncle. And the one person we forgot to call and tell about the conundrum we found ourselves in.  He didn’t know of Kyler’s affection for this animal. He was standing in the back and didn’t see the tears. He just decided he was going to buy my lamb to help support me and the 4-H program. So he did. 

And he gave her back. But not to me. He gave her to Kyler.

Blackie went home with my brother and lived many, many more years.  I went on to raise and sell a few more lambs. Kyler grew up to raise and sell more animals than I ever did, with a love for the whole process that I never had.

But, I never cared much for the selling part.

Reflection.  There’s something about the hours of one year ticking into the minutes of next that make people stop and think.  Maybe it’s all the time we spend with family, counting our blessings and understanding what’s really important; maybe it’s that we take down a calendar instead of simply flipping the page; or maybe it’s seeing a chance for a fresh start, something different, something bigger or something better. 

The weeks leading up to Christmas are filled with planning meetings at work.  Different departments meet to discuss their strengths and weaknesses, their opportunities and ways to improve on the company’s history.  I sit in a lot of these meetings.  And the overwhelming theme this year was that everyone was happy to see 2010 go.  I don’t blame them.  It was a rough year at work.  Full of great change and uncertainty.  My coworkers are ready to kiss off 2010 and dive into a new year. 

I’m with them. Sort of.  I’m ready to dive into a new year.  Anxious for what 2011 will bring.  Excited to meet our baby.  But, I’m not able to say that 2010 was a bad year.  I’m not ready say it sucked or that I don’t ever want to repeat it.  2010 was a wonderful year for us.

A year ago, C was this tiny blob of a baby that just sort of laid there.  She smiled and maybe she was starting to laugh just a little, but really, it was in 2010 that she became this real little person.  She learned to roll over, sit up, crawl, stand and walk.  She learned to recognize faces, babble, talk and call many of us by name.  She learned to give kisses and hugs. We learned that she loves to be tickled and bounced and held upside down when we’re playing.  We took her to the beach, swam with her in the pool and went for many walks around the neighborhood.  We learned we would be parents again, heard the heartbeat of a new life, saw the baby move and groove during an ultrasound and now I feel kicks and shoves all the time. 

Many other bloggers are doing “best of” blog posts and top ten lists.  And they’re wonderful ways to think back over the last year.  I wanted to do one.  But every time I sat down to type it out, I get stuck thinking that there were no huge moments.  No triumphs, no tragedies.  Nothing that defines the year for me.  Just a collage of memories and every day blessings.

We started practicing for C’s birthday this week.  Meaning when you say to her, “How old are you going to be?”  She answers by holding up a finger and flashing you a cheesy grin.  And, when you start singing the first few words of Happy Birthday she starts bouncing and waving her arms like an itty bitty orchestra conductor, in diapers. 

So all of this practicing has got me thinking back to a year ago when I swore that this would be my last childless weekend.  (It wasn’t.)  I thought every twinge I felt was me going into labor.  (It wasn’t.)  And I was convinced that being a parent to a newborn would be easier than being 3,876 days pregant.  (Also, it wasn’t.) 

A year ago, my pregnancy was coming to an end and I was contemplating putting a note on my office door to answer all the the ridiculous questions I answered 43 times a day.  (No, I did not have the baby.  Yes, I am still here.  If I knew when he or she was coming, you’d be the first to know.  Yes, it’s possible I’ll be the first person to be pregnant forever.) 

I can’t believe her birthday is in less than two weeks.  I can’t believe that it was a whole year ago that I was rubbing my hands over my belly and feeling a baby move in response to my gentle jabs and pushes.  A year ago I didn’t know if we were having a boy or a girl.  I didn’t know if the baby would have my eyes and Craig’s kindness or my stuborness and his curly hair.  

I didn’t know what kind of mother I would be or that seeing Craig as a father would open up a vulnerability and unlock an emotion that I didn’t know existed.  I didn’t know that I would happily give up shopping and drinks at the bar for lunch squeezed in between the morning and afternoon nap at a family friendly establishment with friends and their little ones.  I didn’t know that I would care more that the baby was dressed warm for a football game than me looking cute. 

In 10 days, we will get a one-year-old out of bed.  She’ll be the same happy baby girl that we put to bed the night before and she’ll likely have no idea that it’s her birthday.  But as she toddles down the hall, helps to put her jacket on and waves good-bye as we leave for work, we’ll be fiercely reminded that a year ago, she was a squishy, dependent and cuddly newborn.

The last three miles to my grandparents house is on a back road.  You know those roads that have a few houses, more farms, and an old elementary school? It’s the kind of road that has a turn here and there and a hill or two.  Except for a school bus, a tractor or the occasional deer, it’s a quiet road. Especially in the middle of the day when the people who live in “the Valley” (as we call it) have gone to work.  It’s a simple place and the cars that travel through are in no particular hurry.  

It’s the road where I learned to drive.  When I was barely old enough to see over the steering wheel while sitting on his lap.  Coming back to Pap’s house after going out for breakfast or a Burger King lunch with Grandma; as soon as we got to the intersection by the hospital Pap would look at me and grin.  He’d unbuckle my seatbelt and I’d crawl on his lap.  We’d slow down, take our time and he let me steer the red pick up truck those last few miles home.  Unbuckled, with the window down, his arm holding me around the waist.  He’d tell me I was doing good and to keep it between the lines.  

I could say that during those three mile driving lessons I learned about taking control or confidence.  I could say I learned the thrill of doing something that I probably wasn’t supposed to do. I could say I learned about trust and knowing that Pap would never, ever let me get hurt.  But really, all I know is that more than a year since he’s been gone when we come to that intersection by the hospital, I remember sitting on his lap and driving his truck.  

As I see my daughter play with her grandfathers, I see them let her pull their hair.  They try to sneak her cookies, walk her around the house and blow raspberries on her tummy.  They will be the ones that say ”yes” when I say ”no.”  They will spoil her, buy her too many presents and let her stay up past her bedtime.  On their watch, she might not be dressed in matching clothes, they might forget her hat or let her have ice cream for lunch.  And hopefully, when the time is right, they will find an old back road and they will let her drive.     

My daughter with my father

What moment or memories from your childhood are you hoping your child gets to experience as well?