christmas cow

This was the moment. Another portal opening. Between myself and the cycle of life and death. Between me and the mystery of the universe. Between another human and me.

I milked on Christmas. Our family has long not been precious about the holiday. We celebrated the Solstice earlier in the week and exchanged gifts with one another then. On Christmas morning, we enjoy the magic of the elf and open stockings, and there is not much more to it than that. This year was an exceptional year for stockings. Maple and Chris both put on elf hats along with me, and I think it was perhaps the best and most personally perfect array of stocking treats our little family has ever seen. Vermont was graced with a fuck ton of snow over the past few days, as it should be in my opinion, and we spent the afternoon skiing. It was belly laughs and hissy fits throughout and I have come to expect nothing less.

Afterward, the family deposited me at the barn. Just in time for chores. The snow was coming down hard, and any plowing that had been done up there in the morning was only a memory by three pm. I had to trudge through shin-deep snow to get back into the parlor and then for all of the maternity and calf barn chores. Here is the thing about showing up at the barn: each day is either as mundane and regular as can be or an utter and complete mystery, and there is no real telling. Make a plan. But be ready to pivot. Maybe this is why I like it so much. It is much like mothering in that way. Intentions are good. Flexibility is queen.

Every shift, when I arrive, one of the first things I do is check the board to see what notes have been left regarding the herd that morning. How many milkers in the tank. Fresh cows going in the pail. Bottle calves to feed. Often, some other weird, niche farm shit will be up there, too. I decode and proceed. I get a sense at this point of when I may be done, which is more relevant when I have gotten a ride and need to text a rough pick-up time.

We still had two dry maternity cows in with the herd that had come across the ice earlier in the week when Fudge had her calf. The dudes decided it would be easier to let them stay and calve in the pen next to the parlor when they were ready, as opposed to scamper back across the ice and snow to the maternity barn. When I showed up on Christmas, one of these pregnant cows was in the pen, hanging near Galaxy, the Thanksgiving calf we are raising in the barn until she is big enough to join the other heifer calves on the farm. Paul popped in while I was prepping the milkers for the first set to let me know he was going to plow again and that Enterprise was in the pen showing signs that she’d be ready to calve soon. But then said not to worry, she wouldn’t have her calf while I was milking, and let me just tell you that every single alarm went off for me right then.

Throughout every set, Enterprise looked more and more uncomfortable. Standing up. Lying down. Tail up. Discharge. Up and down and up and down and up and down. My internal dialogue shifted from the steady state flow of a standard milking shift to an effort to gather myself up for the unforeseen. Giving myself a little talk-up in preparation to either see or participate in something I was, on Christmas afternoon, wholly unprepared for. I could feel its approach with every passing set.

Midway through my fifth set, I began texting Paul.

“A large bubble is now coming out of Enterprise’s vulva.”

silence.

"It popped. Now it’s a yummy beverage for her.”

still silence.

Toward the end of the sixth set, I texted him again.

“I think a leg is coming out now.”

He came into the barn shortly after that.

I had two cows left to milk. Paul began milling about. Cleaning the pen of amniotic fluid. Laying fresh bedding. Getting ready.

He said that we were going to help the laboring cow; with the temp dipping well below zero, he’d likely find a frozen calf in the morning if she didn’t have him help her now.

Excuse me?

We?

Turns out, with one leg presenting and the other leg stuck back, nothing would progress well without help. She had indeed been struggling with her labor through my shift. Which, on a deep birthing mother level, I knew to be true. Paul’s confirmation was a helpful validation.

He got those legs rearranged. Then he decided to put her in a headlock to prevent the difficulty of her lying down. That’s about when he told me I was going to help him pull this calf out.

Excuse me?

What the fuck?

Friends. This is when I would suggest you be done reading. If digging deep into the life/death/life cycle is not for you, well, I have no idea why you have been reading anything I ever write, but I would also definitely suggest that you be done now. It is not lovely. Rather, it is hard and real and brutal and heartbreaking and flawed, and farm life in its absolute brilliant brutality.

It’s ok. Go. No hard feelings.

This is the point at which, on Christmas night, I found the full weight of my being heaving on a hook attached to a chain attached to a hoof presenting out the hind end of a heifer next to another being whose full weight and ooomphf was likewise engaged. We bore down hard and deep. I have never pulled on anything with so much strength. I have also never heard a cow bellow before. Not really. Not like that.

We gave it everything. At one point, Paul was laid out, horizontal to the parlor floor, his feet god knows where. On Enterprise’s back legs? Maybe? Telling me to use my butt. Put all my heft there. Ha. We are just getting to know eachother after all.

One minute that calf was alive in the birth canal, and the next he was dead on the parlor floor, and that fucking sucks, especially on Christmas, but it is still the better outcome. I know enough, after all, to understand that. Losing the milker, always a possibility, would have hurt the farm and likely the farmer’s heart a good deal more.

This was the moment. Another portal opening. Between myself and the cycle of life and death. Between me and the mystery of the universe. Between another human and me. The chasm of authentic intimacy opened up, and I stood in the very middle of it with my boss, Paul. Adrenaline and grief, shock and wonder, all co-mingled in their delicate intricacy. Pure, and raw, and real. Everything I ever long for in every average moment and yet willfully avoid and deflect even as its tractor beam is dragging me in, as it did this night in the parlor with Enterprise.

When it was done and before we cleaned up and milked Enterprise, Paul looked at me and asked if I needed a hug. I did. He asked if I needed to cry. I did not. Strange, I know. Maybe later. Probably later. Now, it is simply noticing my nervous system revving to settle itself, and some fundamental part of my brain reorganizing and rewiring.

I processed the event over and over last night with my family. All but Freddy, who is probably ready for it, but for whom I will keep things easier for, for a little while longer yet. I continued to sift through my thoughts and feelings throughout the night. In dreams and in the silent, frozen, wakeful hours of middle age.

This feels like the right way to close the year. 2025, perhaps more than any year before, has contracted my outer landscape and expanded my inner one. My range is smaller. I am here now, in Northern Vermont, in the task of family and land more than ever. Things are getting more personal. And as they do, more universal. It is all profoundly connected, after all, and I feel the truth of this again, like new.

This year, I took some space from writing. I was overwhelmed by how personal it was all becoming. Especially in light of a few events over the past couple of years that made me question some parts of myself that I needed to remember as fundamental. In this next year, I will be writing more. As both a practice and a prayer. In an effort to strengthen the tether of my commitment I am putting this space behind a paywall. Beginning in 2026, you can expect weekly writing. Four essays/notes/poems/stream of consciousness musings a month. I am adjusting the price to $7/month. Or $70 a year. If that is not for you, no hard feelings. I am going to let things be a whole lot more personal around here, and a little touch of gatekeeping is in order. Thank you for your understanding and support. I am looking forward to this next chapter.

xxx,meg