Tornado of Lambs

Some years, lambing sneaks in like a fog.

I think I’m watching while I wait for babies to arrive but gradually realize that I’m staring at twins struggling to stand next to their ewe.

Calm, relaxed and quiet.

But not this year.

Lambing season hit like a tornado, roaring twisting chaos to the ranch.

My flock grazes on the south side of the ranch this year.

The county road cuts through the ranch, so I open and close two gates each morning when I walk the sheep three quarters of a mile to their pasture and then open and close two gates when I bring them back to the corral at night.

Our single day of snow flurries found me hoping that ewe far in the distance was just grazing.

Of course she wasn’t.

Of course she had twin newborns laying next to her.

Of course they were shivering in the snow pellets and wind.

Of course these lambs were her first go at motherhood.

I like to leave new families on the prairie while I push the flock of pregnant ewes to the corral.

That way, lambs and new mamas don’t lose one another in the crowd.

This strategy usually works well, unless the survival instinct to remain with the flock overwhelms a new mother.

This new mother was overwhelmed.

I tucked the twins inside my coat and trudged the mile to the corral.

I wanted to bait the new mother into the barn with her latest true loves, but my first responsibility was to keep the babies warm and alive.

By the time I got to the corral, the new mama had apparently forgotten her latest amours.

I stuck the lambs under the heat lamp and thawed some colostrum.

Then I baited another ewe with a cold lamb into the warm barn. After her second baby arrived, she rejected both of them.

Her head went into the stockade. After a day, she recognized her own offspring so peace returned to that family.

The crew who was building artificial beaver dams last week chose my theme for 2026 orphan lamb names – aquatic mammals.

The orphans became Otter and Beaver.

By the next day, three more lambs joined Otter and Beaver.

They get to experience my brand of maternity – which means I leave the heat lamp on and try to remember to feed them four times a day.

My daughter, Abby, my mom and aunt feed them sometimes, but I always take the early morning shift -- when the light turns from gray to pink to the orange glow across the prairie.

That’s when the hungry babies clamor at my feet, excited for breakfast.

I pick up the smallest lamb and set it on my lap while it sucks mightily at the bottle. As I feel her belly swell, the lamb relaxes.

I feel her heartbeat on my leg.

We both take a moment to just be, the lamb warm and full, its eyes lulled into a stupor. Stroking her soft skin, the rest of my world disappears into a fog.

Then the other lambs demand attention and I realize the ewes in the lambing jugs need me, too.

By the seventh afternoon of lambing season, I have seven orphans to feed.

I have pulled three lambs, milked 13 ewes for colostrum, fed approximately 68 lamb bottles and consumed at least five gallons of coffee.

Five ewes have had triplets and one had quadruplets.

The next morning, I have six orphans. By the afternoon, I have nine, with the distinct possibility of having eight.

The tornado rages.

Still, each morning, for just a moment, I lose my day in the soft heartbeat of a snuggling baby.