Mother's Day on the Farm

Reconciling a deep south upbringing with the 'up-north lifestyle' took some adjusting. [Imagine an alternate ending where Scarlet O'Hara marries a Norwegian bachelor farmer instead of Rhett Butler. But that's another blog post. 

I wasn't planning to be initiated as a goat midwife for Mother's Day. But when I walked up to the barn I found Emmily Sheffield, pregnant herself, up to her elbows in a momma goat. Her husband, Jason, was relaying instructions via cell phone from a justifiably surly veterinarian. Neighbor Dave was in mid-text trying to relay all of this in a text to Paul in Wisconsin. I walked into the midst of this drama. 

I do know something about birthin' babies. I've birthed one of my own. I too have been up to MY elbows in a momma goat (the curse of having the least manly hands in the household). The only reason I wasn't squeamish about it the first time was because this wasn't my first rodeo with the justifiably surly vet. I'd survived her verbal pelting during quadruple C-section surgeries from midnight to 4 a.m. on the kitchen floor of another farm during a snowstorm. We lost all 4 does and 8 kids that night. So when Paul woke me up two days later and merely wanted to borrow my forearm, it was a relief. He still teases me about bringing my salon hair coloring gloves salon up to the barn [end of flashback]. 

Paul would not have normally taken a trip at kidding time. In there-but-for-the-grace-of God style he went off to attend to another kind of midwifery. His cancer-battling cousin had just been formally sentenced by his doctor. 

All of this brought me back to the ordeal and fate we were somehow spared. It also brought back the shame of how much we relied on other people's sacrifice, time and energy to keep our farm and our sanity intact. The truth is that I, we, cannot do this alone. And we're blessed that we don't have to. 

Way back when Paul first told me he wanted to farm,  I only had one question. 

"What do you expect from ME?"

"Nothing". 

"Alrighty then". 

It was a nice but unrealistic thought.  Since then I have milked a goat and fed and herded a few chickens, beef and sheep more than once. But not much more. The truth is it's 'not my thing'.  So for the most part, Paul has tried very hard to honor his agreement by leaning on others who's thing it is. Or in the case of his cancer, good-hearted folks who just wanted to help. This freed me up to be primary breadwinner, care-giver and whatever elser . Or when the next 15 minutes was all I could manage thinking about (a keeper).  

My "thing" is all the equally important stuff that most farmers don't like or care to do.  So, while I might shine a light to see if there's anything lurking in the corners of this shame thing, I might also consider paying more attention to the gifts vs. the lack in myself and others.

What has come to me with the wisdom of age (and paradoxical the starting point of today's youth) is letting go of the pretense. And yeah, the meter goes a little wonky in the process. But let's get bone-crushing honest about what we really have in common: the mutual capacity to be total angels and total jerks. And like a midnight rider vet, both at the same time.