When the Cows Come Home
the one where I weave a story of motherhood, romance, and calving
Earlier this week, the crew moved the three groups of cows into one herd and into the pasture behind our house. From the kitchen window, I can see them all standing in a line, a line created by the tractor chopping bales of hay. This time of year, you’ll often find me standing in the kitchen, binoculars pressed into my eyes, looking for signs of calving—a cow marching a fence line, her tail swishing, a cow off by herself, a water bag hanging out of her back end, or the most obvious, a calf on the ground.
Many things about calving remind me of motherhood and having babies myself. It’s a well-known (and probably overused) joke that ranchers compare their wives to their cows. And while some of the jokes are over the top, they don’t come completely unwarranted.
When I was in labor with our first baby—my only hospital birth—I stood and swayed, gripping the IV pole in my hand. I didn’t want my dear husband to touch me. During my second pregnancy, my midwife instructed me to “go out and walk” to progress my labor. When I see a cow pacing up and down a fenceline or at the end of a pasture alone, it makes sense to me.
The cows will stay behind our house for the next week, and then they’ll be moved from our yard—the farm yard—to the ranch yard, where the barn is. The cows are set to start calving around January 17th, the date determined by when the bulls were first turned out with the cows last spring. Our goal is for every calf to be born in the barn—to protect them from the bitter cold temperatures and to make sure the cow and calf bond.
In my December newsletter, I wrote about the romantic life I thought I would lead. I think that’s part of the reason I enjoy calving season—it’s an exciting time with cute calves, yes, but it also reminds me of the early months of Rich and I’s relationship.
I still remember the text I sent to my mom after meeting Rich, “Don’t be surprised if I get married and move to a farm.” I’m pretty sure this text was sent without context or as part of an ongoing text thread. I just threw the words out, unable to keep them to myself. This was days after I met Rich, and it was a bold statement—considering I hadn’t even visited the farm yet.
Weeks after we began dating, calving started, and Rich told me he wouldn’t be able to visit me for a while. The 400-mile round trip on the weekends would only go one way that winter. His weekends would be spent in the barn, so that’s where I knew I wanted to be, too.
I drove to the farm on Friday evenings, leaving behind my basement apartment and cat. I returned on Sunday nights for another week of work before doing it again the following weekend. We spent our weekends bundled up in the barn, walking through the cows every hour, looking for signs of calving. In those days, Rich taught me the signs to look for—having not experienced having a baby yet or being around a calving cow. We quietly brought the laboring cow into the barn, leading her to a pen, pitched with clean straw. Most of the cows labored for a while, then laid down, moaning as she pushed a black steaming wet calf onto the ground.
The occasional cow or heifer1 needed help, and I watched in awe while he slipped a glove on up to his shoulder, then into her rear end—feeling for a calf, signs of life, and then, if needed, assisting the cow in delivering her calf.
I pitched clean straw into the pens and questions into the cold air. We talked about where we would live, weighing the options of living off the farm, what it would look like for me to work, and how would it work for me to make the 70-mile round trip drive to town each day. Did I want to? Would I even be able to find a job I wanted in the closest small town?
We cleaned the barn but didn’t answer all the questions we had for each other. We knew there was tomorrow.
We got to know each other in that barn. I fell more in love with him—watching how hard he worked, the long hours, the commitment, his passion for this life. I saw him, his dad, and the employees work round the clock; the barn never left unsupervised. At the time, I didn’t think about what it would look like when he worked those same long hours when we had our own babies. Having my own child seemed almost as foreign as calving.
As the days got longer, the slices of light growing with each passing day, the hours in the barn slowed too. By spring, we were engaged and planning a fall wedding.
During the next calving season, the sight of afterbirth sent me running and gagging from the barn—the early weeks of pregnancy left me queasy. When the wave of nausea passed, I returned to help turn the cow and calf pairs from the barn. After a 24-hour stay post-delivery, each cow and her new calf were discharged from the barn.
Although Rich swears to this day he didn’t say this, I clearly remember him saying, “I’ve delivered a lot of calves, I could deliver our baby if I had to.”2 I rolled my eyes as he walked off with a pitchfork in hand, my hand placed on my belly.
That winter, Rich and I still spent a fair amount of time together, but instead of just on the weekends, it was during the week, too. But now, I only had to drive three miles between the barn and our house. Of course, in the coming years, things changed when our first baby was born, then the second, and the third. My time in the barn decreased with the addition of each baby to our family.
Each January, when the cows come home to the pasture behind our house—I’m flooded with nostalgia and romance. But also, I’m hit with memories of long days at home with babies and toddlers. I remember bundling up the toddler and newborn just for a chance to see Rich in the barn for an hour. I remember never being able to take my eyes off the preschooler for a second for fear he would get run over by a cow. A cow who was trying to protect her calf.
Because we’re mothers, after all, and that’s what we do.
What questions do you have about calving? Drop them in the comments, and I’ll answer them in the “Farm Happenings” section of my January newsletter! See you then with fresh calf photos! 💛
Farming & ranching friends, do you have any romantic calving stories? 😉
first-time mama cow.
If you’ve been around for awhile, you know how this comment aged.
This is stunning, Stacy. When are you writing a book? It's time.
Are you even married to a rancher if he doesn't crack some joke about "calving" during your pregnancy? 😉 Calving and I have a love-hate relationship. I love being outside and around the calves but the weather and the long days and nights takes its toll. 💙