Ralphie

Both kids were waiting… anticipating… too excited to sleep on that cold, crisp night in 2014. I’d been checking-up every two hours between wrapping presents and stuffing stockings. This wasn’t her first, and usually things start fairly slow. Besides, it was so dark, and I had to get up and get dressed and put on the headlamp every time. Hormones are stronger at night; my midwife said that’s why babies are often born in the wee hours of morning. But every time that alarm went off, I made less of an effort with my clothes. Rubber boots. Hat. Warm pants? Meh. Sweater, definitely.

I always announced myself before opening the door; it was common courtesy, but it also just avoided that element of shock and surprise. What would I want in this situation? I had been through this myself twice, after all. “Hi, Juniper!,” I softly shouted. She turnd and looked, and grunted at me, puffs of steam swirling from her nostrils, bright in my headlamp. After I asked,“How are you feeling?” she slumped heavily into that laying-but-not-reclining position, her black neck curved sinuously.

Labor takes time. Maybe that should be a bumper sticker. We can’t rush the process, but at the same time we have to be aware of all the little signals leading up to the big event. Her breathing. Her position. Has she eaten? Has she drunk any water? Does she need molasses in warm water to encourage intake and boost electrolytes? Are there little hooves showing yet? Is she shaking or shivering? Is she tired? Does she stand up when you open the door or open the grain bin? Little hints that something may be wrong… or reassurance that everything is normal. But it's hard not to intervene. Always so many questions.

He was maybe nine years old then. Santa was still coming, I’d made sure all the signals were there. But there he was, in the middle of the night, calling quietly at the barn door, “Mom? Moooom?” I let him in, and explained that Juniper was in labor. That it wasn’t her first calf, so she should be fine, but I was just keeping an eye on her. He was worried about me, and then he was worried about her. He wanted to watch, and I was ok with that. Juniper was my first calf, and she was used to the kids, so she was fine with him too, as long as we were calm and quiet.

We sat in the cold, lit up by his flashlight, waiting and watching. And then she shifted, and grunted, and little hooves appeared. Something wasn’t right… they were wrong; those were back feet.

“Cosmo,” I said, “the baby is backwards. It’s a breech. Do you want to help me help Juniper push the baby out?”

“Yes, mom,” quietly but without hesitation.

“It could be hard. It could be scary. And there will be blood. You can leave if you want,”

He was confident. “I want to help.”

I sent him to the house for all the kitchen towels, and he returned with them. Birth is incredibly wet and slippery, and we were going to need them all.

By this point, Juniper was exhausted, and the clock was ticking. I wrapped a towel around one tiny hock, and handed it to Cosmo. I did the same to the other foot and kept it for myself. “We’re going to listen to her breathing, and watch her body, and when I say so, we’re going to help, ok?”

Wide eyes in a round, little face, nodding bravely.

“Ready, now, PULL!” yelling, softly. And then, “Stop. Do you think there’s more of the baby’s legs here now?”

He nodded.

“Good!” I say. “We’re helping! We’re going to keep doing this, ok?”

Her contractions came every few minutes. This baby must be a big one. Probably a bull calf, they’re usually bigger. I told him all of this as I thought it. I remembered the time when he was even smaller, maybe five or six, when he got his first bb gun for christmas and learned how to shoot. I paid him a dollar bounty to shoot rats, because there were so many then. But one day, he lifted a concrete block and came to me, in tears. He couldn’t kill those pink, baby rats. I made sure he knew he didn’t have to, I told him I was proud of him, and I would take care of them. And I did. He used to watch “Call the Midwife” with me, because he loved the birthing of babies. He always loved babies and kids. He was my chick whisperer when the baby chickens came to the post office in summer. That sweet, sweet boy who is now a 6’2” man. But here we were with a life-and-death situation, and he wanted to be in it.

Another contraction, and we pulled again. We just had to make it past the hips and it would be so much easier. Juniper let out a horrible groan that was not at all cow-like. It was scary. She was working, struggling, agonizing. I told her (and myself and Cosmo), “I know, I did this too. I understand. It will be over soon, and you’ll be kissing that baby.”

And then, a giant, warm, wet “swoosh” of liquid and slippery calf. We were thrown backwards by our own momentum, encouraged by uterine contractions and inertia into the sweet-smelling, fresh straw bed.

Juniper lay there, still and panting. I cleared the calve’s nose with a towel, we rubbed the furry, golden body with straw. The relief of those first snorting breaths. Juniper was motionless, black and steaming, and breathing. “Your baby is ok, sweetheart,” I whispered. Then we pulled the calf to her head, and as soon as she got a whiff, she was bolt upright.

Cows say, “moo”, right? But there is a special kind of “moo” for newborns. Humans aren’t the only animals who do baby talk. It starts with the initial greeting of the infant and the ensuing cleaning-up. Licking, accompanied by staccato, soft, “moo’s, mimicked by the calf. Back and forth. Big “moo” and little “moo”, an octave higher. This is bonding, and they circle each other for hours, getting to know one another. Wobbly legs and dripping milk and baby talk.

We softly closed the barn door, picked up all the sticky, soggy towels, and I asked Cosmo what we should name him, because the calf was a big, brown, boy.

“I think we should call him Ralphie, mom. Because it’s Christmas and he’s a boy.”