The kids and I make another journey through the fence at the back of the pasture where the broodmares are. We're going to take another look at that new colt. Well, actually a second look for me, a first for J. and C. And they have their marching orders from me. You stay right beside me. If any mare gets nervous or aggressive, you get right behind me. She'll have to get me first if she's going to get anybody.

The brood mares are drawn to us like magnets. We are quickly surrounded by relaxed, tail swishing quarter horses quietly asking us to pet them, please. Being surrounded by a small herd of pregnant mares could be slightly nerve wracking for many, but my kids, who've been around horses since the day they were born, are simply delighted. The boss mare, who has a shining ebony coat and a windblown forelock that nearly covers her jet eyes with the long lashes, inspects each one of us thoroughly.

"Hello, Momma," I tell her. "We've come to see the baby."

And then I hear my kids' collective intake of breath as we spot the colt. He is curled up in the dry winter grass on his slender stilt legs, tiny hooves tucked beneath him, his mother standing watch. She allows us to approach her and rub her neck. She closes her eyes, enjoying the attention. We stand a respectful distance away from the colt, until I am simply overcome by the desire to touch him, and walk very slowly towards the tiny horse, one foot carefully in front of the other, gauge the momma horse's unconcern, and then bend down slowly, every so slowly, to touch his downy fur. And he lets me. I grin like an idiot back at the kids.

One by one, we take a turn at petting the little fellow. Then he pulls himself up to all spindly fours and cavorts, frolicks, gambols in the buffalo grass. The colt turns towards my nine-year-old son and lets out a high-pitched whinny, approaching C. with his neck outstretched, until he is sniffing the palm of my son's hand.