Spring on the farm means lambs, daffodils and blossom, right? Well, it wasn't supposed to this year - not for us.
This was meant to be the year of the stress-free winter and the lamb-free spring.
I was even nostalgic when I saw early lambs out on the Taieri last week, thinking how much I enjoy watching them racing around in the evenings.
I would miss them, though I wouldn't miss the lambing beat one bit.
But I'm not as smart as I thought I was, and the proof is running around in the front paddock with its mother.
Although I shut the rams away from the ewes - and then disposed of them altogether - my plans have been foiled.
Either a sneaky ram lamb managed to stand on tip-toe long enough to do the wild thing with some of the flock, or we have had a visit from a neighbouring ram.
Either way, a dear wee baby arrived last week.
Then this morning, one of the wilder black sheep wandered down to the house with a snow-white lamb that looks about a week old.
The lambs are happy and healthy and the ewes are fine, but I am not feeling so good about it.
All winter I have been worry-free, knowing the ewes weren't pregnant and with plenty of hay to keep them going through the lean months. They've been looking well, visiting each morning for hay or baleage before wandering up the hill to take the winter sun.
I haven't fretted too much if I didn't see some of them for a while, knowing they had plenty to eat, lots of shelter and were not expecting.
But I am no match for Mother Nature, and will have to keep a closer watch on them than I thought.
Still, I was planning to get more livestock this year. Quite a lot more - thousands, even.
However, these ones won't need to be rounded up for shearing, or sent off the the sale yards in the autumn.
These ones will be bees. I am doing a course on beekeeping, and should end up with a hive or two to take home.
That will provide a supply of honey, as long as I do things properly, and will make our gardens more productive by helping with pollination.
I have the beekeeping suit with built-in veil, the gumboots, gloves and smoker.
But I have never had a bee sting, and being a wimp I am a bit nervous.
Brice, the beekeeping tutor, has assured us stings are not as bad as people say.
Then he got us to sign permission slips so he can jab us with an epipen if we turn out to be allergic.
I tell myself it can't hurt more than than the prickles you get from diving across a gorse bush to catch a sheep, which I have done more than once. Can it?