Careful What You Wish For!

Step into my office.

I have a confession to make. Sometimes I am a really bad farmer. No, not in the sense that I am joyriding recklessly in a combine at midnight or pouring giant vats of used motor oil into the nearby river. No, no, nothing like that. More in the sense that sometimes I fantasize about living in an apartment in a very busy city, working a 9-5, coming home at the end of the day to watch TV the whole evening through. Most often these fantasies creep up at the most inopportune times, like when the pigs’ waterer has froze up when its pitch black and -36 C. Or when a pen of uber-fragrant and amourous buck kids escapes from their Alkatraz-esque pen and all come hop into the van as you are loading the freshly bathed children and you’re running late for church. Sometimes it seems that a day off is a distant memory (was it 5 months ago? 6? When was that we took the afternoon off?). Often I have a hard time remembering what my feet feel like in real shoes, not clompy, manure-packed green rubber boots. And why is it so hard to feel very glamourous in coveralls covered in placenta and who-knows-what-else?

Not your typical "Sweet 16" glamour shots.

Don’t get me wrong. I love farming. I love feeling connected to what I eat and grow. I love the satisfaction of a day’s work done with everybody bedded down and well fed (human and animals alike). I love the opportunity to show my kids where milk comes from, the cycle of life, and how raising food is the most noble profession of all. I love sitting down for a breakfast of fresh eggs, our own smoked bacon, homemade bread and butter courtesy of Maude the Jersey. I love the look of wonder and excitement in my little fellas eyes as they peer into the laundry room and behold a wobbly bottle baby kid or piglet. I love spending the day in the sunshine with my family and claiming that its my “career”. :)

But I’m sure you all know what I am talking about. Those moments that creep up from time to time when you really have to question your sanity that THIS is the life, the career path, the job you’ve chosen. The whole basis of a choice is that there are alternatives. When all the kid’s from highschool went on to become accountants and health care technicians and social workers, why did you choose to FARM?? Most people my age don’t understand why I’d go to university to study farming, much less choose to be a pig/goat/chicken/cow farmer…SERIOUSLY?? *insert wrinkled nose here*

The truth is, though, that those people are missing out. They may never know the joys of seeing their first harvest through to the end. They will never know the anticipation of planning a breeding season years in advance, or the pride of handing over the frozen lamb that you brought into this world with care to a gourmet chef who raves about the quality of your products. They might miss out on planting a garden with a couple of soil-encrusted toddlers, or the heartache of saying goodbye to that trusty old milk goat that provided milk for your babies when they couldn’t tolerate anything else.

A few weeks ago a friend asked my 4 year old son if he was going to be a hockey player when he grew up. Without a moment of hesitation he replied, “Nope! I’m gonna be a farmer and have a meat store”. I can tell you at that moment I couldn’t be more proud. :)

Take care, keep warm and sending lots of “unthawed trough vibes” your way!

Tam