Calving time is... hot-tubbing time????

Last week, I read an article posted on social media.  It was about a farmer who "rescued a baby cow" from a snowbank and hopped in a hot tub with the baby cow to warm it up.  They named it Leroy.

I'm sorry if I sound like a "Debbie Downer", but I'm going to burst that happy, bubbly little thought for all.

First off, it's not a "baby cow".  It's a calf.  (And in this case, a bull calf since they decided to name it Leroy.)  Get it straight you crazy terrible journalists.

Secondly, that farmer was doing more than just rescuing the retarded calf that decided NOT to follow it's mother to the warm straw bed. He was protecting his investment.  The article went on to say how the farmer has 100 head or so of cattle calving out this spring, and that he just decided to jump into his hot tub, shitty coveralls and all, with his half frozen investment that he found left behind in a snowbank.

The fact that this story made news, tells me that it must have been a pretty slow day at the office for the journalist.  Every day, especially in the spring months, cattle farmers are incredibly busy with calving season.  On the terribly cold mornings, yes, you will probably find a calf or two that decided a cold snow bank was a better place to lay down than the straw spread out for it 10 feet away.  EVERY cattleman has dealt with this issue.  Some have warming huts, some bring the poor little beasts into their porches or their kitchens or their heated garages/shops.  Some wrap their tender little ears with duct-tape, or they have special ear coverings for them.  And some decide it's necessary to jump into a hot tub.  Fully dressed.  I don't know about you, but I can tell you right now that if I had a hot tub on the farm, I sure as heck would not jump in with disgusting coveralls/clothing that is covered in calf slime, straw, mud and cow manure.  (I mean, can you imagine the floaties in there once you got out??!?!?! Not to mention it would completely ruin the filter???)

Thirdly, the comments that some people posted on this article....were, to say the least.....nothing short of ridiculous!!!  Comments such as: "awwww, now there's a keeper!" or "that poor baby cow, now he's part of the family though" and "see, cows are just like dogs, they're loyal and they are part of the family. he can't sell the little guy now".  Some people actually had the nerve (or the stupidity if you want me to be blunt) to say that "he'll never be sold now, he'll be too attached" and "not all cows are used for meat". You know what?  I call bullshit on you poor, uniformed "city slickers".  ALL cattle will be sold for meat some day.  They might be yearlings, or they might be a tough, fourteen year old milk cows like ours were, but they all eventually end up on the butcher's block, or the dog-food factory.  And if they don't, then  I suppose they had the pleasure of dying peacefully, or painfully, on the farm/or out in the pasture.

I was involved in a Beef 4-H Club for (5 years?).  One year, we had four calves to show at the local & district achievement days.  We had 3 calves that were just picked randomly from the herd, and the fourth was "our baby".  He was a long, lanky, (totally unsuitable 4-H material) steer, named Dopey.  I still smile & tear up a bit thinking about this wonderful, docile beast.  He was orphaned-his mother died shortly after his birth-and because we had milk cows in the barn that had just freshened, we took him in.  He was fed from a special milk pail fitted with a rubber teat, that we hung from the corral planks.  My sister, my brothers and I were his Momma.  We actually had two calves that we played "Mom" to that summer, there was Dopey, and a sweet, tiny little heifer calf named Millie.  They would see us coming from the house and would be there waiting at the fence for their pets and their milk.  Anyway, we decided when it was time to pick our calves for the upcoming 4-H year, that we would halter-break Dopey as well. (I think my Dad just couldn't say no to our request?)

Dopey followed us around the barn yard all the time.  We really didn't even need to put a rope on him, but he had to be treated the same as the rest of the 4-H steers.  The first day we put a halter on them, and tied them to the corral posts, Dopey promptly flipped himself onto his back and laid down.  I do believe we had to cut his halter rope so that he didn't strangle himself within the first few minutes of their "training".  It took three more days before Dopey realized that it didn't pay for him to flip himself over.  Then one day, he just decided that if he had to stand tied to a fence all day and be scratched every half an hour or so, and he got special attention from us, well, it probably wasn't so bad.

By the time our 4-H steers were ready for the achievement days, we could ride Dopey like a horse.  At the district show & sale, he stole all the young kids' hearts.  There was rarely a moment that a kid wasn't sitting beside or on him.  He was so quiet, anyone could lead him or ride him.  But if you know anything about 4-H (or cattle farming), at the end of the season, there's a sale.  That's where all your hard work and your learning comes to a head in the nice, tidy, sometimes generous paycheck that you receive from the stockyards.  Where we sold our steers, we all lined up with our steers, waiting to head into the ring and show off our animals to the best of our abilities.  There are usually tears shed, because of course, you've just spent a LOT of time grooming these animals and training them to do as you bid, and they TRUST YOU.  That was the kicker with Dopey.  He wasn't just any animal.  He had been our baby and he trusted us.  And yes, we sold him.  He was sold for meat, just like all the others.  Someone out there got a terribly lean, skinny steak out of that well-mannered pet of ours.  None of us could even lead him into the ring, but my youngest brother and I did.  I remember not being able to look up at the buyers for fear they'd see the tears streaming down my face.  Everyone, and I mean ALL of the kids that were a part of our 4-H club (and even some that weren't), shed tears when Dopey went into the ring.  After the sale was over, we went to the back pens where the animals were kept once sold, and we just made sure that he was doing OK.  I know that sounds absolutely cruel & heartless to go through all the trouble of raising him and then just sell him for meat *gasp*, but I know I needed that last good-bye.  And so did he, because yes, he was a part of our family.  And for me, that was the hardest part.

Dopey, littlest brother and I

Dopey all shined up

 BUT....here comes that wonderful thing called REALITY.

That's not only what 4-H is about but what farming is about.  It's about the amount of time, the blood, the sweat, the TEARS, and the dedication that go into every single day of our lives.  So you see, if we decided to get attached to every animal that decided to lay down in a snow bank after it's born, and then think we should probably keep it because it's "part of the family now", well, we probably wouldn't be very successful farmers.  We do what's needed at that specific time, for the best of the animal and for what's best for our families.

So to all of those ignorant people that decided to voice their opinion about how that little baby cow was "a keeper" and "he won't be sent to market now"- you're right, of course he's a keeper.  Until sale day.  Then you can thank that farmer for jumping into-and probably ruining-his hot tub with a half frozen calf, raising and feeding that calf, along with 99 of it's peers. Then go ahead and thank the "baby cow" for growing into a nice, well-marbled steer a year from now so that you can eat your delicious steak supper.

C
(For someone who, as a kid, begged her Dad not to kill and eat the milk cow's enormous Holstein yearling calf named Bud, because if he did, I wouldn't eat it, I've had a few years experience and grown more tolerant to reality and practical cattle farming practices)

Did I really sign myself up for this?

Five years ago, my farmer and I were struggling to produce little farmers.  We were told it would be highly unlikely that we would ever have children, with no particular reason of why.  I was crushed, as I really enjoyed children and I knew that what other purpose did I have on this Earth but to give love to my own babies.  Four years ago, I had resigned myself to "just get another dog and call it a day".  Lo and behold, I finally became pregnant with our first little farmer.

During the past 3 1/2 years, there has never been a "quiet" day in our house.  My farmer and I often remark how quiet and boring our lives must have been before kids-did we even speak???  I know the days & nights were not filled with giggles, laughing, singing & dancing, temper tantrums (okaaaaay, maybe that one a few times), fighting, crying, Treehouse TV, crayons and markers everywhere, snuggles, boogers, tears.  Or poop.

That's right, kid's surprisingly come with a HUGE amount of crap.  I mean that figuratively as well as literally.  Kids are expensive little animals, but the money just gets thrown to the back burner when they bump their head on the millionth toy they were told to pick up, and all they want is a snuggle and a kiss from Mom to make it feel "all better now".  In this day and age, yes, we do spend a TRAGIC amount of money on STUFF.  Jammies, clothes (I rarely buy "new" as we have an excellent children's consignment shop in Saskatoon), toys, snacks, diapers, wipes, and the list goes on and on.  I'm positive that we could probably "get by" on more than half of what we actually use.  Instead of buying a $35 case of Pampers disposable diapers every two weeks (for the past 3 1/2 years), I probably should be using cloth diapers- but I was always (and still am, to some extent) the type of person that cannot STAND dealing with human wastes. 

Growing up on the farm, I dealt with a lot of disgusting things.  But they were ANIMAL things.  I have helped my dad at calving time-if you aren't from a farm, you probably don't have a clue what kinds of disgusting things can happen at calving time.  I distinctly recall an incident where a cow had a still-born calf, but it stayed inside her uterus.  The fetus started rotting inside this poor cow, so we had to pull it out before it poisoned the animal.  My dad and my grandpa and I (and maybe even one of my younger brothers??) chased this cow into the maternity pens, locked her into a chute and proceeded to help her get rid the stinking, rotting corpse of her still-born calf.  My grandpa hung his head over the corral and (rather loudly) said good-bye to his breakfast.  My dad must have zero sense of smell as he was right up close to the action.  Or perhaps he knew my trick of "closing" the nostrils from the inside.  I won't lie, the smell was absolutely dreadful, but it didn't really bother me.  The worst part of that entire morning was listening to and watching my grandpa vomit his oatmeal over the fence.  I still gag just thinking about it.

So, the first time my gorgeous, sweet little girl shit herself all the way up to her neck, I was unprepared.  She laughed.  I gagged.  I had to "close my nostrils".  I had to look away, which is not easy to do with a squirming, month-old baby.  There was shit EVERYWHERE.  I was so mortified that MY girl had done this to me, I just couldn't deal.  Then she did it again.  And again.  I finally became accustomed to pulling a poop-covered onesie over her head and just plopping her and the offending onesie into the bathtub.  I didn't even gag anymore.  Almost a year went by.  All of a sudden, my girl was constipated (we put her on regular cow's milk at 11 months old).  The only way she would poop, was when I put her in a bath tub full of warm water.  The first time I found "floaters" in the tub, I screamed and whipped that baby out of the tub in 2 seconds.  I scooped the turds out of the tub and into the toilet using her little fishing net, then proceeded to bleach and scrub the entire bathroom.  She proceeded to laugh and run naked around the house.  In the end, we went through about a month of her being constipated and crapping in the tub, and by the end, I just scooped the turds out with my gloved hands and disinfected everything without batting an eyelid.  Potty training was fun too.  My girl's first time pooping on her little potty- "Mom, look at all that CHOCOLATE!!!!" Followed by "BAH!  Don't touch it!!!  That's not CHOCOLATE!!!!"

When my girl was 18 months old, she somehow developed motion sickness.  I was 2 months pregnant and in the throes of some serious morning sickness, and here I was- on the side of the road- gagging and trying my best to help this poor little girl get the barf off of her shirt, pants, and her car-seat.  By the time my boy was born, I was able to turn around and catch the barf in my hands, and then comfort the poor little vomit-covered child afterward.  Boy, do things change when you've got little people!

It turns out my boy gets car-sick too.  So now I've got a barf-pail in the car, wipes, and plenty of "drive-thru" napkins in the glove-box.  It's not fun, and it's definitely not fair for the little people to feel so yucky just going for a grocery run to the city, but that's our life and I've acclimatized to human vomit.  And the stuff from the other end too, apparently.

Last night, I had to deal with poop in the tub.  Again.  I had just got my girl's jammies on, and had pulled the tub's plug.  I usually leave my boy in there to play with the water as it goes down the drain.  I left the bathroom to grab something, and when I came back into the room, the water was gone, but my boy was squatting there in the tub, poking something.  Something that looked remarkably like a pile of shit.  Oh yes, it WAS.  Bah!  Not again!?!?!?!  There I was, grabbing my boy- yelling "No!!!!  Don't touch that!!!!  Yuck!!!"- and washing his disgusting little hands in the sink 5 times.  (The fun part is that I quickly checked him over to make sure there were no turds stuck to his little bum or in his hair before I grabbed him out of the tub)  I quickly got him dressed in his pyjamas, gave him his sippy cup of milk and a snack, and sent him to watch cartoons with his sister.  Then I proceeded to clean up the pile of poop.  Sadly, some went down the drain.  I could not save it.  However, there were a couple turds just on the verge of falling through the holes of the drain, so I ran to the kitchen-yes, the kitchen- and grabbed my rubber gloves.  And a teaspoon.  The turds were saved and thrown in the toilet with the rest of the pile.  The bleach came out and everything that was in the tub, got it.  For the hundredth time.  All of this happened and was dealt with, within 10 minutes. (A far cry from the first hour spent doing-yay me!)  And I'm sure it won't be the last time either.  Potty training could be interesting with my boy, if not down-right, disgustingly hilarious.  I promptly poured myself a glass of wine, and devoured a Nutella & peanut butter-covered rice cake. (no, I did not notice the irony of the similarities in what I ate afterwards to what I had just cleaned up, until just now, please don't judge...)

The offending pile of poop.

The bleach working it's magic.

My reward.

To all of the readers out there that haven't had children yet, just wait.  It's coming for you.  You might be just like me, and won't know what you hit you.  Or maybe you'll have it all figured out (highly unlikely, just sayin'....)  And to those of you that do have kids, or are seasoned grandparents, I'm sure almost all of you have some kind of puke or shit story that we can relate to.

I have to ask myself, sometimes daily, why I "signed up for this".  But I'll tell you, and I'm sure other moms will tell you the same- we do it for love.  And for the memories.  Because there is absolutely no humility or shame left when you become a mom, but there is just so much love to give, and to receive.  And someday, I know that my little people will have little people of their own, and they'll just have to deal with it.  And when that day comes, I will laugh at the little piles of poop in THEIR tub.

C

Like mother, like......Grandpa???

A few days ago, I was bathing my little people and getting myself ready for bedtime while they played in the bath tub, and then something happened that brought me back 26 years.

My girl is nearly 3 1/2 years old, and my boy, 16 months.  NO ONE kids around when they say "boys will be boys".  My boy is a rough & rumble kind of kid, who I tend to think also loves his mom very much-almost too much some days (and ALL nights!!)..  He enjoys doing naughty things and feels greatly encouraged to continue by that little "n" word - "NO!". He is, quite simply, a BOY.  My girl is very different-she's afraid to try new things, doesn't enjoy getting dirty (she could hardly stand to walk on our grass until just this past summer), and is COMPLETELY ANAL retentive about EVERYTHING. (this is partially her parents' fault, but I refuse to take the blame for all of it!).  My boy hasn't really started talking yet (it's brewing, but still sounds like very adamant gibberish for the most part) .  My girl, however; my girl can TALK!  She wakes up in the morning, and the talk button is flipped on instantly.  She talks and sings and talks and dances and sings and talks, talks, talks.  It's probably my fault, as a stay-at-home mom I talk to my kids all day-who else do I talk to??  The best part is that I have learned to tune most of this nattering out.  However, on above previously mentioned night of bathing, I happened to NOT tune out what she said to her little brother as he stole "her" toy (for the fifth time!!) in the bath.

"F*@# off (my boy's name)!"

It was said quite softly (for her voice anyway) and I could hardly believe I had heard her correctly.  So I asked her to say it again.  She looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes of hers, astonished that I wasn't angry at her.  She knew.  She knew it was a bad thing to say.  She's 3 and a half and she knew.  She repeated it, even more softly, and I had to tell her, 
"You don't say that.  That's an awful, horrible bad word and don't you ever say that again, ok?"  "Ok, Mom, I won't ever again.  I pinky-swear!"  So we shook on it, and I haven't heard her repeat it again.

Now you're probably wondering why in the dickens didn't I get mad at her.  I honestly don't care if words like "shit" are spoken-she has quite frankly used that one for a while now. "MOOOOMMMM!!!!  (my boy's name) IS SHITTING HIS PANTS AGAIN!!!!" (to me that's not a swear-word and I will adamantly refuse to budge on my view)
The "F" word, however, should never come out of a little person's mouth, especially in context like that!  It really shouldn't even be uttered by an adult.  But here's the thing:

I'm a bush kid.  A farm kid.  And I have a "potty-mouth".  I am not ashamed that I do, but I am more than a little ashamed that I have chosen to speak in such a way that my kids hear, know and understand swear words, at such an impressionable young age.

When my girl uttered that word, I was transported back in time to a spring morning when I was roughly 4 years old.  My mom had just finished doing my sister's hair, and she was then braiding mine.  I hated it.  It felt like my mom pulled every little hair out of my head when she braided it so tightly.  (She probably did pull a few out, on purpose, because I know when I braid my girl's hair and she starts whining, all I want to do is just pull one or two really stuck ones to give her something "real" to whine about...)  And so it usually took quite a while to do my hair.  My sister and I were apparently going outside to play after our hair was brushed and braided.  However, my sister decided she wasn't going to wait for me, and proceeded to open the front door.  I don't remember exactly if my mom told her to wait, or if she told her to just get out of the house, but I DO remember realizing I was going to be left behind (AGAIN!!) and screaming from the bathroom, "Wait for meeeeee you little B!@#%!" (insert word for female dog).

 My mom promptly dragged my four year old self back into the bathroom and washed my mouth out with a bar of blue, Zest soap.  (By the way, she didn't get any in my mouth, as if I was opening it for THAT!!!)  I may have received a slap on the butt with the fly-swatter as well, but I don't remember that.  The swearing/soap-eating attempt took precedence in my young memory.

I don't believe I ever uttered a swear word at any of my siblings after that. (at least not in front of my parents) But to be fair, you can't really blame ME!  I was four, and I quite obviously heard that word from SOMEONE else.  I'm about 99% certain it was uttered by my dad.  I spent a lot of time with my dad at that age.  My sister was in school, and my younger brother was just a baby, so of course I was outside with my dad and my grandpa.

My dad has a problem containing his potty mouth too, ESPECIALLY when working with cattle. So does my grandpa.  I don't think I could even tell you NOW some of the things uttered from their mouths in the barn yard.  If you don't want to hear a constant stream of cuss-words, don't help them with cattle.  I mean it.  Or wear ear plugs.  Wait, maybe don't do that-they might direct their cussing at you if you can't hear what they want you to do.  Over the years, I have learned to just accept it.  Cows bring out THE worst in my dad, and I will make sure to shield my little people's ears if they are nearby when a cow decides to turn back in the alley, or when she flicks her klinker-encrusted tail in my dad's face.  There are just some words in this world that little people shouldn't be hearing and absorbing in their little sponge-like brains.

So I willingly take the blame for my girl's terrible, shameful word.  But I won't wash her mouth out with soap (unless she tries it out again, of course), and I sure as heck am not going to put soap in mine.  And I "pinky-swear" I will try my best to censor my potty mouth in the future.

Have a beautiful f-ing day!

(see???  I already censored myself!!!)

C