I’m in my mid-twenties, and honestly get so much hate over being childfree that I’ve started telling people I have an adopted daughter when they ask about my kids. I just conveniently leave out the fact that my adopted daughter is, in fact, a 40-pound sheep, one of roughly two dozen that live in my back yard.
It isn’t even a lie, I raised that lamb on a bottle from the day she was born, as far as she’s concerned I’m her mom. And as long as I’m vague enough, the problems of dealing with sheep sound totally believable as human toddler parenting problems. “Oh yeah, my daughter’s two, she always puts everything in her mouth.” “Ugh, my daughter is always climbing on stuff, I swear she’s part mountain goat!”
I live for seeing how long I can keep it up before someone asks to see a picture of my little darling. “Sure!” I say, “Here she is! Isn’t she adorable?” then relish the horrified confusion when they see this tiny little brown sheep like:
It’s the best thing. It’s my favorite thing I’ve ever done, next to raising sheep in the first place.