A productive hour or so in the garden this morning for Cubby and me.
I weeded the garlic. He hammered on the tiller with his big metal spoon.
I pitched muck out of the hay barn. He climbed the pallets leaning against the hay barn.
I spread the muck over the garlic as a mulch. He "dug up weeds" with his big metal spoon.
I weeded the asparagus bed. He speared the pitchfork in the dirt so it would stand upright (surprisingly difficult when you're three feet tall).
I patrolled around the still-unplanted section of the garden for clumps of the evil horsemint weed. He pulled leaves off the two parsnip plants we left in the ground to go to seed.
I pulled out enormous armfuls of garlic mustard growing next to and through the boundary fence by the gully. He followed behind me, asking if he could eat it and stepping on the tiny lettuce plants.
I pulled up a huge section of yet more evil horsemint near the compost heap. He ate garlic mustard.
I contemplated the caked mud under my fingernails. He stuck a forest of bamboo stakes in the dirt to hold up the corn and peas. (At least, that's what he said they were for. I didn't have the heart to tell him I'm not planting either of those this year.)
I sat on a stump outside the garden. He sat down in the wet dirt, scratched up handfuls of the mud and carefully squeezed it in his fists.
We both got really dirty. But only one of us was actually productive.
Though I suppose that depends on your definition of productivity.
Current lamb count: Sixteen--nine girls, seven boys, and two ewes left to deliver.