Astrology. What a funny thing, right? I mean, whoever invented astrology (cavemen, according to Wikipedia) was kind-of brilliant:
“You, Bork. Me, Tuk. We love our birthdays.”
“ugg ugg.” (Bork hadn’t quite learned the art of speaking yet.)
“For birthday, Tuk get Bork white blinky things in the sky.”
“Based on your birthday, white blinky things mean different things. They tell Tuk all about his personality and what his day will be like.” (Tuk had highly advanced speaking skills for a caveman.)
Think about it, astrology is a way for any self-centered person (all of us) to have a reason to be crazy.
“I know I like to throw things when I’m mad and I’m sorry I gashed open your forehead with a giant vase, but I couldn’t help it. It’s because I’m a Scorpio. It’s in my stars.”
What’s even better is that you can read made up blurbs about what your day is going to be like based on the day you were born. Like fortune cookies only longer and with less crunchy goodness.
So, you can see how I was a bit skeptical of horoscopes my whole life. That is, until my now husband guessed that I was a Pisces ON OUR FIRST DATE! “I could tell by the shape of your face,” he said confidently. Wha?? That’s not even a thing… Is it? Maybe it’s my charming fish-like smile.
Anyway, after that, I drank the Kool-aid. I knew which signs I was compatible with, and which ones to avoid. I held firm to anything in my personality that proved I was indeed a Pisces.
And then, I started having babies. My first two daughters are Capricorns, which are goats. Perfect. I freakin’ love goats. I could definitely handle that. Plus, as any astrology connoisseur knows, Pisces is a water sign and Capricorn is an earth sign, which in hippie language means that they get along great. Things were going swimmingly (pun fully intended).
Then, I got pregnant with a Ram. She would be born in April, making her an Aries, which is a fire sign. As we all (should) know, fire and water do not coexist well together. My hippie, star-loving mind was nervous. I couldn’t handle an Aries Ram!
Why couldn’t I just keep having little snuggly goats who hop around bleating and smiling all day? I could knit sweaters for them all even.
“This is ridiculous,” my non-hippie mind scolded. “Who cares what sign your baby is?”
“You’re right!” I agreed. “I being silly.”
And so I bucked it up and stopped caring about the fireball brewing in my belly. Until that one day on the farm…
We stopped to feed the goats, because…well, because they’re goats and they’re always good for a laugh. My husband noticed a giant llama who was in the same pen, likely protecting the goats because…well, because they’re goats. He said, “Poor llama, nobody’s feeding it anything.” So I suggested he leave some grass on the post for the llama (because I’m pretty sure nobody wants llama lips eating right out of their hands). He complied and the now-happy llama approached to enjoy its feast.
But then, seriously out of nowhere, a RAM came charging at this poor llama full on and butts right into its neck. The llama’s whole neck does this rubber-bandy stretch and retract thing and I’m pretty sure it spit a big, fat spit as the wind got knocked out of it.
I stood, mouth agape, as this now-happy ram ate the llama’s fallen food as though nothing had just happened.
I cried silently as the little goats continued to frolic and knock each other over in the background – completely oblivious to this head-butting fireball that was also in their pen.
Fast-forward nearly two years and I can say with certainty that I am indeed raising a ram. She even head butts her sisters on a very regular basis. But, I’m happy to say that I love it and (obviously) love her. She keeps me on my toes! I guess water needs a little fire sometimes just to keep from getting too flowy. Or something. Ask me again in another couple of years.