The Toddler Chronicles, No. 26
Udders, tails, and the bovine birthing process.
Gabby, the girls, and I went to Fair Oaks Farms a few weeks ago. We went on the pig tour, the cow tour, stayed overnight in the hotel that looks like a barn, saw a newborn calf, had fancy ice cream—the whole nine yards.
It was a good time.
The first night in the hotel room, Lyla fell asleep in one bed with Gabby, and holy cow, that child can snore nearly as well as her very pregnant mother. Charlotte was resistant in the other bed with me and eventually fell asleep watching Bluey on the Disney Channel.
I was lying on my side watching Season 18 of Married at First Sight on my iPad, minding my own business as the only conscious person in the room, when Charlotte suddenly climbed onto my back, grabbed my shoulders, put her head ear-to-ear with mine, and started mouth breathing. Heavily.
It was like that scene from Star Wars Episode V when Yoda was riding around on Luke’s back.
I’ve attached a photo for clarity. It was just like this, except instead of taking place a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away in the swampland of Dagobah during a time of existential crisis, it was Charlotte and me lying horizontally in a barn hotel at a dairy farm at 10 p.m. with Bluey and Married at First Sight playing in the background.
She may only be three years old, but boy can she mouth breathe like an overweight 77-year-old man with sleep apnea and a thick neck.
The next day, we went to the cow birthing barn just after a calf had been born.
This calf was fresh.
The mother was still licking and cleaning her baby and was still working on expelling placenta and whatnot.
It was us and a handful of other people in the seats watching. Lyla very loudly said, “Mom! When you have the baby, will you lift your tail up and poop her out onto straw like the mama cow did? Will you lick her clean too? Will you feed her with your udders?”
It was hilarious and only incredibly awkward.
Gabby and I said something to the effect of, “It’s not technically pooping the baby out, but kind of similar… it’s different for people. And people don’t lick their babies like cows do.”
Then I added, “And Mom doesn’t have a tail or udders.”
Lyla said, “Oh,” shook her head, and went back to coloring as if everything had been settled.
Or so we thought.
A short while later, we went on the dairy farm tour. It was us and probably another 10–15 people. We were all lined up watching the nonstop parade of cows getting milked on what looked suspiciously like an amusement park ride.
Seriously, the amount of engineering involved was impressive.
But I digress.
The tour guide asked if anyone had questions, and Lyla’s hand shot up.
The guide called on her, and Lyla said, “When my mom has her baby, will she lift up her tail and poop her out onto straw like the mama cow did? Does she have udders?”
The guide laughed awkwardly and said, “I’ll let your parents answer that one,” then promptly punted it back to us.
Again, we told her that Gabby doesn’t have a tail and explained that human babies are generally born in hospitals and not on farms, so definitely no straw.
And again, she seemed satisfied by that answer.
Or so we thought.
Fast-forward another 90 minutes to the pig farm tour. Us and another 10-ish people were walking down a hallway overlooking the pig birthing area.
The guide asked if anyone had questions, and sure enough, Lyla’s hand shot up again.
“What’s your question?” he asked.
“When my mom has her baby, will she lift up her tail and poop her out onto straw like the mama cow did? Will she feed her with udders?”
Without missing a beat and with a very serious face, the guide said, “Oh, I don’t know. That’s a cow question, and I’m the pig guy.”
I interjected and said, “Lyla, didn’t we talk about this earlier?”
She said, “I just wanted to know… Oh! Did you see the baby pigs in the window?” and ran over to a display of newborn piglets.
Part of me wants to put a pile of straw on the porch and tell her it’s for the new baby.
The more rational part of me understands that if I did that, I’d probably be sleeping in the straw by the end of the week.