The Lamb Sham

This is my third year of lambs. Please note that we are - at best - farming adjacent. I am not responsible for the overall health of any animals. Any medical, nutritional or behavioural issues, please see the farmer. But for one day in October, at the local school, our boys are in the running for all the glory

Pets Day. As someone raised in Hamilton, we had no such thing. By the time the 1980s had arrived in Kirikiriroa, no-one in the suburb of Hillcrest had any lambs, nor were any sand saucers, single bloom flower arrangements or button holes required. The farmer's wife still chuckles about the look on my face when I learned what was involved.

For the city-dwellers among you, let me summarise. On the Thursday of the blessed first week back at school in the final term of the year, we all get up at ridiculous o'clock, raid the farmer's garden for flowers and ferns and take them down to school by 8:30am. In a frenzy that reaches truly epic proportions, children and whanau whip up a series of floral extravaganzas. Our list this year includes 'Unusual Container with Flowers and Greenery' and 'Jam Jar Wildflower Arrangement.' I can tell you now that post-graduate qualifications did not prepare me for this.

At lunchtime, everyone returns home, but not to rest - now the baking begins. This year Mr. 6 will enter decorated biscuits, and wants to enter the gingerbread competition too.  His mother, who can remember precisely how much gingerbread was eaten last time, is unlikely to let this take place. Meanwhile Mr. 8, who also hates the taste of gingerbread, has graduated to funny shaped pikelets, and decorated cupcakes. We attempted cupcakes a few days ago. Slathered in blue icing they were almost edible.

Then on the Friday of the blessed first week back at school in the final term of the year, we all get up at ridiculous o'clock, load the unsuspecting lambs into the truck, arrange the baking perfectly and head down to school. Judging is taken very seriously. Each entry is given a number so the judges cannot pick favourites. In the meantime, the animals are paraded about and then are left to nibble grass. A kindly man in a white coat arrives and asks the children questions - Perindale? Romney? Awapawa-cross? Don't look to my darlings for the answers. Ribbons will be awarded, and children will be delighted.

Back home, the lambs will be unceremoniously returned to their paddock, and they'll be lucky to ever see a bottle again. They'll return to their flock, and for many, they'll lose that connection to the humans that fed them. Except the ones who don't. But that's a whole other story.

Have a great week everyone. If you're someone keeping lambs alive while the kids skive off, I see you doing all the hard work and I salute you.